𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 | | 1917

35. FIND ME

" He was my most beautiful someone. "

-

MAY 23rd
1917
Paris, France

-

IT WAS DARK once she came back to the hospital and she now wished to never see daylight again. The room in front of her was, much to her own pleasing - empty. If it hadn't been, Jo wouldn't know what to do as she leaned onto the wall with her shaky arms, one hand safely placed upon her chest as if she was reassuring that her heart was still alright.

But it wasn't, in some way or another. It was scared, so incredibly heavy to hold, and hopelessly searching for an escape. Pressing intensely against her weak ribcage, threatening to leak out and spill its self on the bleak floorboards. Leaving permanent marks for her to frown upon for the rest of her wasteful life.

Well done, Jo. Well done.

Will's coat was hanging neatly upon the chair in the corner of the room. She'd glance at it - even walk forward and adjust its wrinkly material once in a while, trying not to admit to herself that she was slightly intimidated, yet also so incredibly infatuated by it.

She tried to not think about the previous scene she just had been in with the man which the coat belonged to. But it devoured her feom the inside. It was the same feeling from before. She felt it everywhere.

Will told her he would go to a hostel for the night and that seemed to be it. After everything.

And yet he had bewitched her.
And she could never forgive him for it.
So instead she loved him.
And that was the worst part.

And 'love' was just a word. Yet it rang through her mind. Something strange and abnormal that she didn't know the worth nor the meaning of. But still, it existed with so much weight to it, she was afraid to touch it - in case its impact was fatal.

But it seemed a little too late to be afraid. Too late to stop anything from haplening.

So what else could she do?

Her roommates came eventually, glancing at her curiously. Making small talk, but no other than that. Jo was tired of talking. She was tired of finding the right words to express things, because feelings weren't meant to be described, or understood, or explained - they were meant to be felt.

And that was what she decided to do as she laid there, in that same cold bed as always. She felt.

The low breaths from the others behind her had never disturbed her from sleep. They had closed the door to the corridor outside, pushing their rested minds as far away from the hospital's reality as they possibly could. But it didn't matter; Jo wasn't getting sleep either way. Still, somehow, all noise disappeared once she got tired enough.

She had figured that those moments - those late nights - were for the people that couldn't sleep. The poets, and hopeless romantics and devoters whose minds are still so much alive and filled with words for someone who wasn't there.

Those nights were not for the lovers asleep in each other's arms, but for the lonely who are in love with the loved but cannot be loved themselves.