1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

25 | taurus

IT'S ALMOST COMICAL HOW FRAGILE DETERMINATION IS. The subject is almost flimsy, like the material of cheap folders or sheer polyester, and as she wonders why she's constantly shot down, it's because her resolve simply doesn't exist. Maybe it's all of the past memories rushing up to the tip of her tongue like a powerful tornado, or maybe it's the fact that her palms start to sweat profusely, fingertips growing cold and transforming into sharp, sub-zero icicles.

Eloise, it seems, is always compromising in some manner; she lacks blood-stained fearlessness and driven motivation, and the cup of dread inside her mind overfills and spills over the rim as blue anguish permanently stings her skin. She's trapped—she's trapped, and she only feels alive when the pain grows so intense that her eyes water.

Something's wrong with me, Eloise thinks in the early hours of the morning, watching the sunrise blur into a portrait of gleaming golds and shimmering silvers. Chase's sleeping body lies next to her, and as she quietly slips off the mattress only to pull the sheets up to the Spanish girl's chin, Eloise pads across the hardwood and heads to the kitchen.

In all of her years of living, she's become well aware of the various types of silence: there's the one where comfort lingers in the background, carefully waiting to wipe away the stains of salty tears; there's the one where hot anguish dominates and chases away any remaining oxygen; and lastly, there's the silent kind where anxiety serves as a double-edged sword, slicing open palms and cutting feelings into messy ribbons of flesh. And as she pours herself a cup of coffee and looks out the living room window to observe the familiar chaos of Los Angeles, Eloise feels the air molecules circulating her head freeze in an eerie atmosphere, and she's both relieved and terrified all at once.

After waking up wrapped in Jonah's arms in nothing but his shirt, Eloise had experienced a miniature panic attack. He'd looked ethereal bathed in the light of the morning dew, and she traced his features with her thumb as if attempting to memorize them.

Almost as if she'd never see them again.

Jonah, like always, was a gentleman: he brought her breakfast, fooled around with her some more in bed, and let her stay as long as she wanted to while turning on the television to her favorite comedic sit-com. But the tension between them was strange, and Eloise had returned home reflecting on what it all really meant. Maybe he regrets it, she'd thought, but then immediately she declined it. If you go there, there's no turning back.

And unlike the movies and the erotic descriptions of being with someone for the first time, it had really, really hurt. Pleasure was nowhere and everywhere at the same time, but Eloise realized that she'd loved simply being that close to him, with his hands feeling like sacred skin on her hips and his lips becoming familiar with the slender column of her throat. His weight above her had been more than welcome, and when Eloise remembers everything that happened, she feels hot and cold at once, skin turning an odd temperature.

He was so caring, she thinks, and impossibly gentle.

If she's completely honest with herself, Eloise feels terribly torn. But today isn't accepting her sadness, and—

"Hello?" Holding her phone up to her ear, she braces herself for his voice. And maybe she shouldn't have picked it up, but it's like her own personal addiction: heartbreak. It's sickening that she needs it, but at least it'll make her feel.

You're so fucked up, Eloise curses.

On the other side of the line, she hears her father breathe a sigh of fake relief. "Eloise," he greets, voice oddly formal as if there's someone standing next to him. "Happy birthday—I wish you'd let me visit."