Wapun Meadow bébé ils ne veulent pas de toi

She did not know to be wary of him, that the sum of his whole was a greater and deeper darkness than what was writ in the scarring to his face. No, her own hopefulness may as well have been borne of a necessity purely selfish, a necessity to belong so great that she would bend to whatever will sought first to either break her or mold her. Ignorance may have been bliss in this case, but ignorance itself was a grave thing fraught with many tangible roads of good and bad.

Phoebe believed she had been left to pick through the bad—this must be a wholly good thing, even if she herself had to see to it. His murmuring only pleased her, led her into believing that she was on that road; it bolstered the smile that had settled onto her face, and left the prior scare to be left behind them somewhere in that meadow.

Silence eked in, but it too was a dangerous thing to her, and far more tangible.

“Thank you,” she said, “for giving me a chance.”