we’ll find moonlit nights strangely empty, because when you call my name through them, there'll be no answer.

nat stays quiet for most of it. she sits on the small sill beneath the window with you, legs inside and feet planted on the carpet. you, on the other hand, have your legs dangling precariously out the window. your feet kick back and forth, like a child’s old habit that never died out. ironic, really, when you compare a childish habit to the cigarette between your dark red lips. is it a similar habit? nat can’t tell for sure.

rather melodramatic, aren't you?

“the moon,” you point out quietly after some time of silent smoking and unspoken words. your finger raises to the sky, one long, chipped black nail tracing the crescent of the moon.

“it’s pretty,” nat tells you. a quiet reassurance maybe, an acknowledgment that she is still listening to you. paying attention. caring.

we’ll find moonlit nights strangely empty, because when you call my name through them, there'll be no answer.

you go back to being silent, and so does nat. there’s a lingering awkwardness here, with the night sky and radio silence besides the occasional sounds of cars or rustling trees. there’s a moment where you, distractedly, tip forwards slightly. forwards being out the window.

you’re on the second story.

you mind if I smoke?

“hey,” nat says suddenly. her hand flies out to grip your thigh, hard. her short nails dig into your skin and her fingers tangle with the strings of the fishnets you have on.

“focus. you’re gonna fall.”

her hand squeezes your leg tightly.

we’ll find moonlit nights strangely empty, because when you call my name through them, there'll be no answer.