ミ☆ 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎?
In which a casual romance turns into a full blown love which will be...
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NEW YORK 1935
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
ON THE FIRST FRIDAY OF JULY, Eleanor moves out of the only home she's ever known. All of her belongings packed into five boxes, she's more than ready to leave this place behind. She's been loud king forward to this day for years and years now, more than ready to leave it all behind to start over on her own, without her father and his demands and remarks, without dread and without that awful feeling in the pit of her stomach that seems to have been there every day for the past ten years. It's time to finally move out and move on, she's a grown woman now, graduated and everything. The last thing she needs is a drunken old man holding her back from her true potential.
Her friends come along to help her out; Josie, Bucky and Steve all come to her house to make this a quick and breezy process for their friend. And it is, between them they pack the final few things and look through the place to make sure she doesn't forget anything, in the span of a couple minutes.
Eleanor returns inside for the final box as her friends load the other's into Bucky's father's car which they've borrowed for the day. Her own father stands in her room, or rather, what was her room. Now it's just a room, with plain walls and a couple pieces of furniture. He looks around him, distraught at the sight. Once he hears her footsteps approaching, he turns around to look at her.
"You're finally moving, huh?"
Eleanor barks out a laugh, arms crossed over her chest incredulously. "Yeah. Finally. I've been waiting for this day for eight years."
He clenches his jaw. "So have I, kiddo."
She should let go of this, let him have this just so she can get out of here sooner but there's that part inside her that tugs at her soul that makes her unable to let go it and let him have the last word. "Don't fucking call me that like you actually give a shit about me. You gave up on me the day mom died," she snaps, pointing an accusing finger at him.
A flicker of annoyance slips through his facade. She can physically see the anger swelling up in him, the small changes in his face like the little crease between his brows and the downward quirk of his lips that he tries so desperately to hide but completely fails at as he allows his anger to rise. "I have kept your stomach full and a roof over your head every single day of your life."
She nods. "I'm grateful for that, I am. But all of those things feel so incredibly inconsequential when you haven't shown me an ounce of love for what, eight years? Maybe even longer than that," there's a genuine sadness laced in her voice, because while she's angry she's also deeply sad about this entire ordeal.
