but there's little flutters of sunlight peeking in through the lazily-closed blinds, shining on specks of dust floating in the humid air. These same rays of light are making Tatum's heart beat erratically in her throat and in her ears; she feels like she's being slowly ripped open by this enormous pressure, this enormous and constant weight that's pulling her flesh apart, in two different directions, giving way to all of this emotion and pain and, especially, the soul that she's been trying to cover for years now. But he's looking down into her eyes, green-gaze glistening with tears and appreciation, and by the way his red mouth quivers, Tatum can tell he knows, he just
knows, and it's killing him almost as much as its been gnawing at her.
His voice comes out in a hurt whisper, this whisper that's seen and carried all this trauma on its back, and it almost makes Tatum become wracked in harsh sobs, but she holds herself together and shudders in his arms instead.
The room is dark and there is two of them, standing face to face, and his voice surfaces with an uncontrollable, innocent, and burdened: "I want to stop loving you."
Tatum shakes her head, looks down at the carpet, and replies, surprised at how easily it slips, "Me too."
This is a homeless dream that is impossible.
