maybe if she had been called beautiful before with so much drive, she wouldn't have been so
stuck
on the one drunk boy from the street.
but he had meant it in such a way―
she was doomed right from the start.
༻❁༺
―on a girl with bad days, the first b...
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「 I 」 ELEVEN.
there was a local band playing a house show that night.
it was a group of kids attached to marijuana and music, and Morrison just happened to know them well.
the show didn't start for another few hours. so, in unspoken hiding from their respective households, they were sitting together in a guest room in the house.
turned out Morrison knew the kid who lived there pretty well, too. kid's parents were out on vacation, so what better time to live?
no one had shown up yet. why would they when it was such a lovely time to watch dumb movies with parents and siblings and people who loved you purely?
they sat across from each other on the guest bed. they weren't talking, and he seemed comfortable with it. but to her, the space should've been filled.
"what's your name?" she blurted out.
of course, she didn't get any answer she would've wanted. he sighed, an over-dramatic sigh, and looked up at her in exasperation. "it's Morrison now, Marguerite."
"but if you were talking to your regular old friends, Morrison, what would they call you?"
he shrugged. "i told my 'regular old friends' i prefer Morrison. it's up to them now."
but you didn't give me that option. now i don't know who you are, and that's all i want to know.
she decided to shut back up, focusing her gaze on her own hands, then at Morrison's. his fingers were so long; it had been one of the first things she'd noticed about him. his nails were too short and unkempt, and it was endearing; it s o f t e n e d him.
her thoughts couldn't slow her heartbeat.
so she reached forward,
slowly,
waiting on the rejection that never came,
and took one of his hands in her own, tracing the messed-up nails.
his hands weren't soft. Archer, on the other hand, never did anything of substance like guitar, so his hands had always been soft, almost unnaturally so. not Morrison's. the latter's hands had been lived with. who knew how many bottles he'd lifted, how many strings he'd broken, how many hands he'd held.
he could've known everything. he knew infinitely more about life than she did, and she couldn't be convinced otherwise.
she knew he was watching her. she remained focused on his one hand between both of hers. beautiful. he was a vision.
"Marguerite," he said finally, voice hushed almost to a whisper, and she shushed him.
because when he finally spoke, she knew the illusion would break, and he would still be Morrison and she would just be Marguerite, and it wasn't enough.
she could never be enough for him.
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