1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

22 | volans

TRUTH BE TOLD, ELOISE PARK IS FAR FROM FINE. The little things—like the essay she has next week and thoughts about her father back at home—transform into her own personal storm, lightning bolts shocking her skin and burning molten flesh in a tragic combination. When she drives to her apartment in the rain, she feels like something's wrong but unsure of what it actually is, and that feeling, that sensation bothers her so much that Eloise nearly misses the traffic sign turning red.

The woman who'd picked up Jonah's phone didn't exactly help her, either, and so she debates calling back but eventually doesn't because her boyfriend is probably having a great first day and she doesn't want to taint it with something as trivial as her unknown emotions. Her body feels heavy, her thoughts wander carelessly, and it seems like her grave is already early in a land full of nightmares.

It's frustrating why she's like this, and Eloise feels a pang of crimson agony as she gets out of the vehicle and tries to avoid the rain the best she can, hair falling around her shoulders and air oddly humid. Snap out of it, she thinks. What's wrong with me?

The question brands itself on her stomach, and although she desperately tries to search for an answer, she can't come up with a solution. It's like an everlasting scar settling on her cheekbone or a mosquito bite right on the ankle: unsolvable, damaging, and conflicting. She feels useless and inarticulate, resembling something of a flickering lucid dream.

Unlocking the door, it's a relief that none of her roommates are currently home, and Eloise makes herself a hot cup of green tea before sitting on the edge of her bed and just staring as the raindrops dance mockingly on the window sill.

And when she lies down, head empty, Eloise doesn't think of how tears stain her lash line—no, of course not.

She doesn't think about that at all.

Why do I hurt so much?

***

After the Korean barbeque, Jonah's clothes smelled like liquid smoke and peach-flavored rice wine that Sloane had accidentally spilled onto the front of his shirt. And if he thinks about it a little more, Jonah doesn't dislike many people (he can probably count the number on one hand), but something about the other intern rubs him the wrong way and he does his best to stay apart as much as possible.

The sound of her voice pisses him off.

Sloane was the one that recommended him to the company, after all, and he'd be a moron if he messed it up. But she does need to learn some structure and his boundaries, because Jonah isn't single anymore. Hasn't been for a while.

Distantly, he wonders if Eloise is alright after seeing her somewhat broken expression this morning, but considering that she didn't call him today, maybe she just needs her space. Oftentimes, he's caught between contacting her and letting her be, and it's a struggle to think about what's best for her in that moment. She's stronger than anyone he's ever known but if he texts her too often, she might think that he doesn't believe in her iron willpower (even though he does). When she slips into these phases that chill him to the bone, Jonah wishes he can take away all her pain—like an anaesthetic, he supposes, or a potent numbing agent.

He chases sleep with his head falling off his pillow, the moonlight shining against his skin just as he shifts to the other side, and—

The phone rings, vibrations running up his forearm and letting him know that something might be terribly wrong; something might be happening right now without his knowledge, and Jonah sits up on his mattress, rubs his eyes, and looks at the caller ID before blue panic sets in.