[His hands freeze, momentarily, and he swallows, hard. What starts at a slow trickle runs deeper and quicker the longer he lets the memories linger; a false life, with a man who smiled far more often and had a kid and had friends and went out in the evenings, who had - a band of all things. Living the shitty hipster life and the wholesome parenting ideal, wrapped up in some dichotomous, bizarre, un-fucking-natural amalgamation of a fantasy.]
[She references it like it's nothing.]
[He stares at his hands, trying to remember what it is to look at them without feeling like everything's drifted two inches to the right.]
no subject
[She references it like it's nothing.]
[He stares at his hands, trying to remember what it is to look at them without feeling like everything's drifted two inches to the right.]
You still remember how those things go?