the sky’s not going to fall

If it’s not her nails it’s her lips, if it’s not her lips it’s her hair — her fingers are relentless on them; touching, rubbing, clenching, twisting. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again like there’s an undeniable force that prevents her hands to stop moving.

But the worst of all is when they tremble. Trembling, shaking hands, while the fingers gnaw on the skin of her thumbs, picking on it until it bleeds — but she never stops. She lets them tremble, those thin fingers on her hands, shaking uncertainly like there’s something so terrifying about to happen.

“what are you so worried about pretty one?”

He wonders to himself all the time. Because she is pretty and delicate and so unusually alluring even though her shoulders are almost always bent — like she’s carrying the whole world on her shoulders.

He never understands that expression, carry the whole world on your shoulders — the whole world is so large. There are things in it that aren’t even understood yet, that aren’t seen or heard or even tangible. You’re not meant to carry things that you can’t understand, you’re meant to explore, to search, to be immersed in it maybe. Never carry.

Nobody notices — or really cares to be more precised — that she rubs her lips when someone talks and looks into her eyes at the same time; that she twists her hair into a jumbled mess on her index finger whenever she’s standing alone; that she chips her nails and picks the skin on her thumbs whenever she’s trying to form words out of thin air.

It only stops when she’s reading. When her hair would cover the right side of her face and her eyebrows would knit attentively together — sitting under that tree in the city park on a bright Sunday morning or under a dim lit library light so late into the night, with her books on her lap — wilde, plath, poe; books with words of the world.

Her hands would stay still for hours with those books. But she’d take a deep breath in between, letting her eyes wander around for mere seconds, and her fingers would move again. Tapping quietly on the cover of those worn books with her eyes while her head would suddenly tip slightly upwards — like, somehow, she’s worried that the sky’s going to fall in seconds.

“Oh silly darling, they sky’s not going to fall — not with you carrying it on your shoulders and down onto your trembling hands.”


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