the songbird ; b.blake

twenty-three; trigger points

I paused. Swallowed hard.

"That I was still that girl. The one who flinched at her mother's footsteps. The one who begged for a love that didn't hit back."

Bellamy stirred beside me, just barely. Like he wanted to reach for me, but didn't know if he should. I didn't let him.

"He called me the Songbird," I said. "Mocked it. Said that's all I'd ever be. A weapon they dressed up pretty."

My fingers curled around the dirt beneath me.

"He said you knew about the things my mother did. That you knew and left anyway. That it proved what I really was."

I finally looked at Bellamy. His eyes were on the ground, his mouth tight. Jaw clenched like he was physically holding something back.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I didn't answer.

"I never should've tried to leave," he went on. "You're right. I was running. Because I was scared. Of the Ark. Of what comes next. Of how much I—" he stopped himself. Looked away. "I didn't want to break this."

I looked at him sharply. "You didn't want to break this?"

He flinched, quiet.

"You already did, Bellamy."

He nodded, jaw tightening. "Then let me fix it."

"No."

That got his attention. He turned to me, eyebrows drawn.

"I'm not forgiving you this time. Not yet," I said, steady. "You don't get to promise you'll stay and then pack a bag the second things get hard. I'm done holding the pieces while you figure out if I'm worth it."

His face fell.

"I'm not going to bed for someone who keeps disappearing," I added. "You want to make this right? Then prove to me you're not leaving. Not just with words."

Bellamy didn't argue. He just sat there, jaw clenched, nodding slowly.

The sun had dipped low. Gold now bled into deep blue at the edge of the clearing.

I stood, gritting my teeth against the bruises blooming on my skin.

"We should get back to the depot," I said, brushing off my pants. "Grab what we can and head back to camp. It's getting late."

༄｡° 𓅃 ༄.°

By the time we reached the edge of camp, dusk had settled into a heavy blue hush, draping shadows across every tent and rusted panel of the dropship.

The air smelled like smoke and pine needles. A small fire burned near the center, and a handful of delinquents hovered around it, murmuring low.

Heads turned as we emerged from the gate— Bellamy and I, rifles slung over our backs, clothes torn and stained with blood and dirt.

I felt their eyes tracking us in. Let them stare.

Bellamy didn't say a word as we crossed the clearing. His shoulders were hunched, jaw locked. Mine weren't much better. Every step jarred the bruises blooming across my stomach. But I kept moving.

Clarke spotted us before we were even a few feet in camp. She jogged out from the tent with a relieved breath— then stopped dead when she saw the state we were in.

"God," she said, eyes sweeping over us. "What the hell happened to you?"

Bellamy answered first, voice flat. "We found the depot."