Heartbeats [ON HOLD]

two | compromise

But it isn't the best thing either.

In all her years of living here, all she's ever wished for has been to make her mark on the little town. To do something more. Something meaningful. Make herself known.

Something tells her that being known as the "one who sells bread" isn't making much of an impact.

"Uh..." she trails off, her voice has gotten quieter, she realises. It's always been a bit quiet, but not once because of self-doubt. Only because she doesn't like scaring away the birds with a loud voice. "Yes, that's me," she admits in a mumble.

"Oh," Noor says, it's all she says, and for a moment, Medha's convinced her heart stops. Is she judging me? I do that enough to myself. "That's— that's oddly endearing."

Out of everything Medha expected Noor to say, it wasn't that. Never that.

Until now, endearing wasn't ever a word that people even used to describe her.

That's oddly endearing.

She doesn't know why she expected Noor to be rude about it. There wasn't any malice to Noor's voice when she asked her that question, there was no judgement. There was no elitism of I sell produce for a living and make an impact on everyone's lives by giving them food to eat every day. What do you do? in her voice either.

And she hasn't been rude any time during the conversation that they've been having. Only justifiably annoyed— Medha was stealing from her backyard, even if she didn't know it at the time.

"Thank you," is all she can get out without letting it be known that being called something so whimsical as endearing is affecting her more than it should be. "Y-Yeah. Thank you."

Noor smiles. Just smiles.

And again, Medha's brain short-circuits.

What's wrong with me? I should just... snap out of it, ask her if I can keep the fruits, and go back—

"Would you like to come in? To my home?"

"Can I keep the fruits?" she asks at the exact same time.

And only after the words leave her mouth does she realise what Noor has said to her. What Noor has asked her.

Before she can get anything else out of her mouth, maybe apologise for being so unbelievably rude by asking if she could keep the fruits that she attempted to steal, Noor is speaking again, that same cadence burrowing itself in Medha's ears, warm like honey on a warmer day.

"I'll answer that question once we're in a place that isn't in my backyard, where we're stepping on all the grass. We can take this conversation back to inside my house, hm?"

Stranger, Medha's mind reminds her in a quip. She's a stranger.

But at the same time, she isn't entirely sure if anyone really is a stranger in Farmond. Even if you haven't spoken to everyone, you know them. There's that benign ease with everyone regardless of whether or not you've spoken to them. And though this girl— Noor— isn't familiar and though this side of Farmond isn't a known territory to Medha, the people who live here are still a part of Farmond, and no one is a stranger in Farmond.

"I made tea," Noor offers, and Medha doesn't know why she's pushing so hard for her to go to her home, but who is she to disagree? Especially when Noor's shoulders rise into a small shrug, lips curl up into a smaller smile, as she says, in a sort of question, "The tea has flowers in it?"

Really, who is Medha to disagree?

"Okay," Medha agrees, and then repeats, "Okay. I'll come in."