Something has changed.
Bexley has been alive nine years. Longer than she ever expected to live, really—and somehow she is still surprised every time the sun sets, the moon rises, the world turns; every change that occurs somehow manages to startle her like the first time. At some point, she knows, she should have learned to accept it. Write things down and let them go instead of leaving claw marks. But things like this are easier said than done; and Bexley knows little about life, but the one thing she does know (besides the nagging insistence of her feelings for the girl in front of her) that she is beholden to fight it all the way down.
Every death is like the first: pure pain down to the raw bone. But every kiss is like the first, too—white-hot electricity spearing out in every direction, full of butterfly wings beating strong enough to lift everyone involved right off the ground.
Something has changed, and she should know better than to expect that it wouldn’t have. But hope is a powerful thing; even as Bexley comes to a stop in the sand and tries to gauge what, exactly, is different, she cannot bring herself to admit it outright. If I am careful not to look too closely, some part of her says, I will see that nothing has changed. If I smile and squint, I will see we are the same as we were, that time has not really passed, and the scars are an illusion—
Seraphina says calmly: Yes. We do. And Bexley smiles—so faint it’s almost sheepish, the curve of her lips somewhere between nostalgia and relief, because it is not a satisfying answer at all, but it is the only one she could have expected. And it is a testament, too, to Seraphina’s very concrete sense of self that Bexley hears yes, we do, and wants to laugh (maybe in relief) at how predictable it is.
Something has changed. Other things—thankfully—haven’t.
“You…” Bexley repeats. The end of the word rises in pitch, an incredulous question. One brow rises with it, instantly turning the expression on Bexley’s scarred face quizzical; and the faint look of confusion remains steadily in place as she glances at Seraphina, gaze flickering up and down as she tries to piece the situation together. “You what, exactly?”
If she has her own suspicions—well, she was raised too polite to ask.
