❝ put my guns in the ground.
i can't shoot them anymore.
that cold black cloud is comin' down,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door ❞
― 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐒 𝐍' 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒
supernatu...
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"It's vogue, right?"
Summer placed her hands on her hips, dimples poking out beneath her sunshine smile. Paired with lips painted red, the dimples sprinkled specks of a sardonic glimmer onto her expression. The indentations were a child's. Summer Bishil at nine years old, flashing the dents in her cheeks with every giggle. The lips - flaming red and a sigil of womanhood - were Summer Bishil at twenty-one. Grown. A stranger to her childhood but for the natural leeches around her smile that refused to say goodbye.
"Summer," Bellona sighed, shrinking further into the couch cushions beneath her. "You're in law school. You can't say 'vogue' anymore."
Another leech that clung tight. This time, it was to her speech.
The blonde's bottom lip poked out. "Why not?"
Bellona forced her eyes to the shirt Summer wore - the item that her friend had declared to be 'vogue' in the first place. It was a variation of a halter top, not unlike the ones that her favorite celebrities wore. The top was a rusty yellow, exuding a soft blend of leftover 90's grunge and modern pops of color. It was made complete by a shoelace weaving that held the neckline together - holes on either side of the fabric with string lacing itself between the punctures.
"Because you're a few semesters away from being a lawyer," Bellona said. "And 'vogue' is slang that you used when you were twelve."
Bellona hadn't particularly liked her friend's shirt. The style was disjunctured, especially when paired with her black mini skirt, and it seemed that the yellow pigment wasn't sure if it wanted to possess a cool tone or a warm one. Yet, she saw how excited her friend was to be adorned with the tight-fitting garment, so she would have never vocalized an opinion that defeated that.
"But yes, it is vogue," Bellona finished. She disguised the white lie with the white flash of her smile, hoping the two were close enough in their lack of color that it would fool Summer.
Summer let out a huff that was a little too grandeur and flopped down onto the cushion by her friend. "Good. Because I literally have nothing else to wear."
The corner of Bell's peach-painted lips reached upwards. Anyone who truly knew Summer would know that was a lie. The spirited woman grew even more lively when it came to buying and wearing clothes, so much so that they had begun to spill out of her closet and into the kitchen. Bellona had first noticed this when she'd come back from one of her afternoon classes. She'd opened one of the cupboards to reach for a cup, only to find that they had been relocated to make room for folded stacks of Summer's blouses.
"What are you going to wear?" Summer hummed, eyes glancing over Bellona's black yoga pants and oversized Stanford tee.
Bellona only shrugged. Despite the fact that she'd been able to force herself to participate in her daily activities, she'd never been able to force herself into normality. Not since her diagnosis.
