Heartbeats [ON HOLD]

two | compromise

✧❀  compromise  ❀✧

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☽

Blinking up at the person and their dark brown gaze, Medha's lips part into a small gasp as her eyes drink in the sheer everything of the person in front of her.

Wine red lips curled up into a wry smile, hijab in the exact same shade, not a shade lighter, not a shade darker, thick and black eyebrows raised up in a sort of questioning amusement— the person is... beautiful.

But Medha has always found people astoundingly beautiful. There's always been something about the people in Farmond and their eyes that tell stories that differ so vastly from the next person that captivates her and makes her believe that they're all equally mesmerizing.

Nevertheless, the person before her is ethereal. More so than most other people her eyes have had the privilege of seeing.

"So?" the person asks, and God, if she wasn't already in pure awe of their appearance, she might have gasped again at how lovely their voice is. "Is there anything you want to confess to?"

Gaze dragging down to the abundant apples in her bag, and then, to the green stalks of grass beneath her feet, she shakes her head and squeaks out a quiet, "I'm sorry! I do this all the time, I didn't know this place was owned by anyone! I thought this was—"

"An abandoned plot of land?" Huffing, a small laugh blows out of their mouth, and even though Medha isn't looking at them— she's afraid she might lose all train of thought if she does—, she knows that their eyes are rolling in annoyance. "I can't believe this. Do you steal fruits from girls' backyards all the time?"

If she wasn't so entranced by how smooth the girl's tone is, and if her mind wasn't blossoming comparisons of her voice to  slow-dripping golden honey and churning butter, she might have raised her head up to hold gaze while speaking to her.

However, now, with the girl's voice that sends Medha floating on clouds and her delicate cadence of speech, like she's in on a secret with herself and no one else, she can't begin to bring herself to even attempt to raise her head.

"I promise you, I didn't know I was stealing!" she defends, eyes carefully moving upwards, slowly, steadily, absorbing the girl's appearance in all her glory.

Her embroidered top with flowers, leaves, buds running down the sleeves, the dark brown cloth of her skirt brushing against the fresh ground underneath the two of them, the sandy brown glow in her cheeks— she's one with the nature, blending in with the trees and the earth and the apples dangling from the branches.

Quickly, Medha finds that she can't take her eyes off of her.

Maybe the reason she's so spellbound by the girl is because her mind has grown so familiar to everyone else in the town— to the way their noses scrunch when they laugh, to the way their eyes crinkle when they smile, to the way their lips knit together when they're chastising her for rolling down the hills and getting her pure white kurtas muddy.

The girl in front of her isn't familiar, not in the least bit.

She doesn't know if that thought scares her or allures her.

"... So many trees with fruits. Fresh fruits," the girl whose name Medha would know if she could read the sign on her door in the near distance, one that she sees only now, after taking her fruits, says. Snapping back into focus, Medha frowns, glancing down at the fruits in her bag. "How do you see that and then think that the place isn't owned by anyone? Did you think the trees water themselves? I wish they did. They're so dependent."