‍ ‍ ‍. . . ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ✷

⠀ even⠀⠀ the⠀⠀ 𝗶𝗿𝗼𝗻 ； ݁⠀ᛪ༙ ˚. still fears the 𝘳𝘰𝘵 hiding⠀⠀ from 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 .͟.͟ ݁⠀ᛪ༙ ˚. i cannot 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 ⠀

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ didn’t⠀⠀⠀ realize⠀⠀⠀ i⠀⠀⠀ had⠀⠀⠀ such⠀⠀⠀ a⠀⠀⠀ big⠀⠀⠀ fan⠀⠀⠀ ❨ .͟. ❩⠀⠀⠀ how⠀⠀⠀ about⠀⠀⠀ an⠀⠀⠀ autograph *☨ ⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ and⠀⠀⠀ in⠀⠀⠀ its⠀⠀⠀ brevity,⠀⠀⠀ its⠀⠀⠀ tragedy…⠀⠀⠀ this⠀⠀⠀ has⠀⠀⠀ been⠀⠀⠀ made⠀⠀⠀ eternal.⠀⠀⠀ ❨ .͟. ❩⠀⠀⠀ better⠀⠀⠀ this⠀⠀⠀ way…⠀⠀⠀ to⠀⠀⠀ fade…⠀⠀⠀ with⠀⠀⠀ your⠀⠀⠀ eyes⠀⠀⠀ gazing⠀⠀⠀ upon⠀⠀⠀ me ♱⃕ ⠀

⠀ ⠀ you⠀⠀⠀ need⠀⠀⠀ a⠀⠀⠀ lesson⠀⠀⠀ on⠀⠀⠀ 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯⠀⠀⠀ 101 ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ❨ .͟. ❩⠀⠀⠀ luckily⠀⠀⠀ for⠀⠀⠀ you,⠀⠀⠀ i⠀⠀⠀ have⠀⠀⠀ an⠀⠀⠀ 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚⠀⠀⠀ 𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆⠀⠀⠀ ♱⃕ ⠀

when my death begins, i wanna know that i was dying for you. / i died for you.

people speak of hope as if it is this delicate, ephemeral thing made of whispers and spider's webs. it's not. hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of cobblestones in her hair.