Such a blunt description would amuse me if not for my state of mind as of late. I have to grip the sanity thread, pulsing with brightness if I have any inclination to get better... For him. I'll get better for him. And thus, a taste of her internal wordplay. None to intelligently spoken, but not as loose as previous Amaria. In the bar mere dimensions from their place standing where they were.
"I suppose we do." She couldn't halt the shiver that raked her spine as he touched her. Everywhere they touched feeling alight with electricity. Her face soon cleared of expression, even pain. The near blackness of the huge palace of a place casting eerie shadows across her face. Showing a glimpse of the person she never wanted him to see. So, to prevent any facial reading, she averted her eyes. Cascading down to the finely glossy tile flooring. "There's... There's spare rooms on all three floors," she said in monotone. Keeping the desperation to ask him to accompany her in her room for the soul purpous of holding him close, knowing he would most likely rather keep a safe distance.
After all... She was half demon... "If you need anything, you don't have to ask for it. So long as you don't steal any belongings of mine, too which the outcome would be my iron toed boot up your ass, I trust you with your own devices... I'll-" she started, neglecting to finish as she strayed from his grip and to the stairwell, engulfed in darkness. Her bare feet thumped instead of pounded each stair, and once on the second floor, she stepped right, pressing her back to the wall, sliding down it, and wrapping her arms around her legs.
The tears came fast and stained her cheeks. Having time to fully reflect, she played through the day in her head like a story she despised to see. Once finished, she could feel her mothers chastising. Her voice bubbling in anger, and spilled like the breaking of the Hoover Dam. Look at you. Pathetic. What lover are you to rob him of happiness? Just because you have problems, doesn't mean he is a stress receiver. If you know what's good for him, rdi him of your existence. You mean little to nothing, and he's to pained to see that. How could he understand love at such a younge age?
"But... He's twenty seven..."
All the more reason for you to separate. He obviously means nothing to you but a trash back. Tossing his feeling and throwing them down the shoot like they mean nothing. 800 years, my ass. More like a moody teen in need of therapy... Years of fucking therapy, she hissed, voice like poisin heating her blood.
