nina varela

if the universe were static, i could stand anywhere in this world and i swear my line of sight would end on you. i swear i’d find you in the dark

The Irish Aesthete: Ruins of Ireland, by Robert O'Byrne

She looked the same as last night—red uniform, messy dark braid, big brown eyes. She carried the same intensity about her, like heat waves rising from her skin, even though she was just standing in the doorway and not currently in the middle of saving Crier’s life. Like she was more than a human girl. Like she was a summer storm made flesh. 

Crier was beautiful. Created to be beautiful, but it was more than that; more than perfect bone structure and symmetrical features and flawless brown skin. It was the way her eyes lit up with interest, the way her fingers were always so careful, almost reverent, as she flipped the pages of a book. The way she held absolutely still sometimes, like a deer in the woods, so still that Ayla wanted to touch her, reach out and touch her face to make sure she was still real.

There was something terrible in her, something clawed and angry and afraid and sad… The truth of Ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn’t know the words. It was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.

crier had been designed. crier was made. but in the moment ayla first touched her, crier had learned what it felt like to be born.

Stop thinking about her. Why was it so hard?