when it snows

07 - stubborn, not capable

Lift. The weight yanks something through my lower back and into my breath; dots pulse in my vision like cheap fireworks. I set the case on the floor too fast.

"Excuse me," one of the students says, and I move aside with a smile that uses the right facial muscles and none of the spirit.

Try again. Less pride, more legs. Fingers under the plastic, count it like a jump entry: one, two, three—up. The case clears the shelf and lands against my thigh with more thud than grace. Not that heavy. Also not that light.

I get it to the counter with my arms trembling and set the water down. The cashier doesn't look up. His attention is deep in the religion of receipts. My hand shakes as I pull my card. It's the cold. It's not the week of pretending I don't need food like other mortals.

The bell rasps again. I don't look because looking opens doors you can't close.

"It figures," a voice says, low enough that the freezer noise tries to hide it and fails. "You disappear for a week and turn up at the only store within walking distance."

My spine recognises him before my eyes do. I look anyway because I always do the thing I tell myself not to.

Jungkook stands two feet away in a black hoodie and grey sweats, hood pushed back. His hair looks like he's run his hands through it too many times—waves fall unevenly across his brow, a damp curl at his jaw as if he just showered or ran until the night sweated him out. The chain on his earring catches one mean fluorescent line and turns it soft for half a second.

He holds a basket like it belongs to him: strawberry milk, instant rice, bananas, a protein shake. The strawberry milk vanishes under his sleeve, a secret he won't share. I look away quickly, like I didn't see him be human.

"You're alive," he says. No smirk. Just a checkmark of sound.

"Unfortunately," I say, because that's the only humour I can afford.

His gaze makes a clean line down and back up. Not cruel, not gentle. Inventory, like a blocker reading an attack.

I know what he sees because I would see it as well: too pale; too thin; hoodie hanging wrong; shadows under eyes digging trenches; raw skin around my thumbs where teeth keep looking for softness and finding none.

I tuck my hands into the sleeves. Too late.

"You look—" he starts, then stops, like there's a list of words and all of them are violations.

"Don't," I say. The card machine bleats. I tap. Nothing. Tap again. The machine contemplates its existence.

He shifts the basket up his forearm. "Need a hand?" He flicks at the case.

"No." The word comes out too small. I clear my throat. "I've got it."

"Sure." He doesn't move. "Because you look like you could deadlift a truck right now."

"Do you flirt with everyone like this," I ask, "or am I special?"

"Special," he says, deadpan. "Congratulations."

The machine finally coughs out a receipt. The cashier slides the case toward me without looking up. Plastic scrapes. My molars ache at the sound.

I wrap my arms around the case because I'm stubborn, not because I'm capable. Off the counter—vision tightens. The world tips its head and asks if I want to play a game.

Jungkook steps in without asking. "Let me—"

"Don't." I jerk back, too sharp.

The case tilts. My grip slips. The world spins itself thin. A rushing tunnel sound swallows the store. Light goes weird. My hands go weird. My knees aren't mine.

"Aria." His voice cuts like a coach's whistle—the kind your body obeys even when your brain wants to argue.

Hands—his—catch the case before it smashes my foot, then catch me when my knees kiss the floor.

"Don't," I say again, but that one never leaves my mouth because the dark gets there first.

The dark is quick and clean. No weight; no sound; no seeing myself from outside. Just the relief of not having to hold a single thought.

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Chapter Song: Liability by Lorde

'We slow dance in the living room, but all that a stranger would see is one girl swaying alone, stroking her cheek.'

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A/N

Friday chapter! I waited to post before turning my laptop off for the night haha. 

Aria's line between "I'm fine" and "I'm not" got paper-thin tonight.

Be honest: would you have asked for help, or done exactly what she did?

It's hard not to root for her even when she's messy.

And if you're still reading, I hope you're breathing easy today. If you aren't, please remember to take it one breath at a time until breathing no longer depends on numbers.

Much love,

- wordsinpurple