sage is an island unto their own making. seperate from every other person who occupies the flat.
a being of a strict routine and a bleeding soul. each day they sit in the seat they claimed as their own, turn the tv to bbc news where palestine is on fire.
the conflict which never seems to end has ignited once more. israel's army relentless in their squashing of 'hamas rouges.' but as sage leans in to take in the conflict, that does not seem to be what they are taking in.
rather it's as if they are looking for someone. a macro-sized game of where's wallie.
and at last i get it. get why sage was willing to sacrifice so much land for so little. for a tv boxset.
for nakeeb.
(who ever they are.)
sage mouths his name as they search the screen and i stand in the kitchen, behind the table top, glass of orange juice in hand - watching them.
there is an acheful longing that makes me think he's a lover. but maybe that ache is just there because sage's home is in flames but there nonetheless, while they are not.
my conscience speaks up because i can't: 'who is he? nakeeb, i mean?'
sage is hugging themself so tight it's as if they are trying to draw blood. they turn in my direction, brows knitted as if unsure my question is genuine.
i figure, from the breath sage exhales they've decided even if i amn't they are.
'he is the other half of my soul; my best friend. he helped me get out of palestine when it was to his detriment and he's in trouble right now because of it.'
a pained sigh escapes me. 'shit.'
sage mirrors my sigh, and turns back to face the boxset. 'shit indeed.'
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a/n: I swear at some point in the future I'll treat this novel with the respect that it deserves. Until then, enjoy this sporadic and untimely update
