“There’s still time. You should sleep.”
Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn’t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth back his hair. It’s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.
“You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.
“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation.
“Because that’s what you and I do. Protect each other.”
After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.
Say there’s a girl you… like… (I wish there was a better word for this but because there isn’t and “love” is what I would say if I was an insane, shady creeper, I’ll just stick with “like”)
Say you were too afraid to tell her that you “liked” her…
Would it be appropriate to email her and…
“You do the easy thing, the appealing thing, the peaceful thing, mostly it turns out sour in the end. But if you take the hard path-ah, that’s how you reap the sweet rewards. Duty. Sacrifice. They mean something.”
“Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.”