Lark pulls themself together while Lily is in the kitchen. It’s easier, without her eyes on them. They find their breath again, and wipe their face clean with their sleeves. They even find a half-empty box of tissues behind the couch and tear through another quarter of it until they can breathe through their nose. Maybe if they just… don’t think about it, then they can pretend to be alright for a little while longer. Hey, it got them this far.
They’re almost sane again by the time she comes back, and they curl their fingers around the mug she offers, nodding their thanks wordlessly. It’s still scalding hot, but they’ve already lost most of the feeling in their hands so it’s not like it hurts. They take a breath of steam. The tea smells warm and spicy, something like chai or pumpkin spice, and they can almost taste it from the steam alone.
Lily’s right, in a way. It does make them feel better, blowing ripples into their drink to try to cool it down enough for a sip. They’re pulled back from it when she starts talking, though, and they shift uncomfortably, making a face into their mug.
“You know, I’ve been to a lot of places,” they start, in a tone low enough to be called calm if it weren’t for the tense set to their shoulders. “Every place I’ve been, everyone I’ve met, they’re all just trying to get through one more day. That’s not brave, it’s just life." They laugh, but it's bitter, bitter all the way through. Just like them, they think, grief and regret and self-recrimination dripping from their words. "I haven’t even done that.”
They don’t look at her, their gaze fixed on the dark liquid in their mug. The surface takes a moment to settle, but when it does it reflects startlingly gray eyes back at them, and they set it down so quickly that tea sloshes everywhere, staining their carpet and skirt and the edge of one of the many blankets spilling off their couch. “Shit.”
They stand up suddenly, jolting to their feet like a jack-in-the box. “I’ll get a towel,” they say, already moving for their bedroom. Their vision fuzzes around the edges, tunneling into one bright spot surrounded by noise, but they refuse to stumble, moving on autopilot for the door and slipping inside.
It’s the smell that hits them first. Not to say that their bedroom smells bad, just… familiar. Like them, and also like the flowers wilting on their windowsill and the ever-shifting carpet of both clean and dirty laundry that softens the hardwood floor under their feet. They take another step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind them.
Lark didn’t think they’d ever actually see this room again. It shows, kind of. They didn’t bother to empty the trash can or make the bed. The curtains over the window are askew, sagging around that one missing ring they never got around to fixing.
Another step, and something crunches under their shoe. They lift their foot and see two silvery shards, shiny but too small to catch much light. That’s right, they did that, didn’t they?
The mirror is covered by a sheet, but in some sudden burst of emotion they catch the corner of it and toss the fabric aside. Beneath its veil, the floor-length mirror propped against their wall has clearly seen better days. Cracks and missing pieces swirl outwards from where their face would usually be, and the gold paint of the frame is worn, chipping away in too many places to count.
They run their eyes along what was once one of their favorite possessions, stopping at the floor where hundreds of picked-off stickers curl around the base like old scabs. The hammer is there too, with silver dust still speckling its broad side. It seems to stare at them, accusation and recrimination written across its wooden handle. Haven’t you already ruined things enough?
It feels like clarity.
They can’t stay here, in this place that they once loved, with these things that they once loved. Not even for the girl they once-
It snags in their mind, and they cast a glance back at the door, considering, for just a moment, what's waiting for them on the other side of it. Who's waiting for them. They've already burned that bridge once, though, haven't they? They walked away knowing what it would do to her, and they did it anyway. What have they done to deserve anything from Lily Pond?
None of this was supposed to be theirs anymore, they think, and the thought rings true. They ruined their whole life in the process of leaving it, because not once in nineteen goddamn years have they let something go easy. Why should they start now?
No, they played their part. Fate was the one who didn’t do it right. And she’s getting away with it. That can’t be allowed to stand.
The drop from the window doesn’t scare them anymore. They’re only on the second story, and they know how to fall from higher heights. They shove it open and drop, running as soon as their feet hit the ground.
It’s what they’re good at.
