Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

his hesitance, his concern, it troubles her. it brings to light her own uncertainties; what will come of this, of them? everything felt so right, and yet how quickly did all these things come to pass! she sighs, softly, and moves to stand beside him, shifting so that they stand parallel to one another; both with a view of the creek. 

she touches her shoulder to his, considers. she knows what she desires, hopes for. but him—"what do you want, artyom? if you could know anything, be anything, have us be anything - what would it be?" she queries softly, breath condensing in the fast-frozen air as her gaze follows the winding creek.