Maybe not necessarily an optimist. Maybe underneath it all she was a bruised fatalist, aware of every cosmic bullet she had coming. But she once held on to hope so fiercely, one couldn't be sure if it was an earnest embrace or she simply believed what she needed to for the same reasons.
To get out of bed. (People tell themselves the truth they need. Sometimes.)
Elena almost asks him if he would've gone for art, had his father not been so against it, but she doesn't need to. And they both know that's not what matters anymore. Instead, she falls silent, her index finger tracing the edge of his sketch book. "Jeremy was an artist, too," she says quietly.
"I'd catch him drawing in his room. Not as much, after our parents died, but sometimes he'd pick it back up again."
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Maybe not necessarily an optimist. Maybe underneath it all she was a bruised fatalist, aware of every cosmic bullet she had coming. But she once held on to hope so fiercely, one couldn't be sure if it was an earnest embrace or she simply believed what she needed to for the same reasons.
To get out of bed. (People tell themselves the truth they need. Sometimes.)
Elena almost asks him if he would've gone for art, had his father not been so against it, but she doesn't need to. And they both know that's not what matters anymore. Instead, she falls silent, her index finger tracing the edge of his sketch book. "Jeremy was an artist, too," she says quietly.
"I'd catch him drawing in his room. Not as much, after our parents died, but sometimes he'd pick it back up again."