Moonlark Turned Evil

50: Rooftop

Rejoice, for I am back from my hiatus!!!

I had a wonderful relaxing time, and now I am ready with a lot of good ideas for the next few chapters!

School also begins tomorrow for me (well they had a sort half day on Friday, when they displayed who was in what class and stuff like that) and so that means Moonlark Turned Evil will be once again updating every week!

Also I just finished Bungo Stray Dogs season 4 and I am on the edge of my seat waiting for July to come and bring with it season 5! (I highly recommend the anime, but also the trigger warnings go something like: suicide, weapons, implied self-harm, blood and death, so just a fair warning about that.)

I'm not entirely sure if this chapter is just a random mashup of stuff I wanted to do or if it actually follows the flow of an ordinary conversation lol

But enjoy anyways!

I'll see you next week in chapter 51!

(Ps. I cannot believe we're already in chapter 50!)

Keefe found her on the high roof of Havenfield, her legs dangling off the ledge.

She heard his footsteps stop, and cast a glance over her shoulder. "Do you need something?" she asked.

Keefe refused to meet her gaze, squeezing his fists tightly as he stared at the ground.

"How are you so calm?" he finally muttered, when the silence had stretched between them for too long.

"I don't understand the question," Sophie replied truthfully.

Although Keefe had known about her mission, and her position in the Neverseen, she had still been wearing a false front around him until now—the fake mask that belonged to a slightly depressed version of the Moonlark. But now, Sophie felt no need to pretend she was still that false persona.

She could just be . . . whoever this new person was. Not quite Ales, and not quite the Moonlark.

So what slipped from her lips wasn't a word of comfort, or an assurance that she did care—that she wasn't calm at all. And maybe it was better to just give the truth, rather than lie.

"Sorry," Keefe said, changing the subject. Although he hesitated to perform the action, he sat down beside her. "I shouldn't have gotten angry at you over my . . . mother."

His breath hitched slightly when the title rolled off his tongue, almost as though he found it difficult to say that one word—mother.

"Anyone would've acted like you did," Sophie said.

"You wouldn't have."

"You don't want to be like me," Sophie said sharply, so fast that she cut off the end of his sentence.

"I do," he said.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I really do, Foster. I want to learn that pokerface, that clear, decisive attitude that you have." Keefe's expression was faraway, the same face he made when he talked about something related to his parents. "And I wish I could turn off my emotions, like you—"

"No." Sophie surprised herself with the cold note in her voice, the sharp edge. "I don't have an off button, Keefe. I don't . . . I just don't feel to begin with."

Again, silence stretched between them—angry and sad and everything in between.

Then Keefe reached out a hand to brush his fingers against her bare arm. Sophie flinched backwards as he gave her a bitter smile. "Then what is this, Foster?"