Casual intimacy is my fingers on her palms

My new normal felt so peaceful.

My thoughts were endless in her presence. They were as loud as ever, but they were clearly all in her image. Lain upon the bed, I would entwine my fingers with hers, pressed hard against the covers as our lips met, as if two magnets couldn’t bear to separate.

I was enamored with how long her fingers seemed, despite her palms which were so small in comparison when they touched upon mine. I took time to trace against their lines, which sat like a neverending weaving path upon her skin.

A kiss from her lips was a breath I forgot to take, and a glance was a thought I forgot to think. I valued time that I counted out like coins, but I realised then that I had begun to spend them all on discovering the aspects that built her up. I knew then that I enjoyed all that I knew of her, which was nearly the entirety of her.

Lying in her bed, I resigned myself to her spiderweb with a smile, and let my heart feel happiness.

"Even this... I deserve this...?" I whispered softly.

And in the next moment, we were away from the quiet of her home, and sat within the whirring bustle of the steel city. Gears within the walls clicked against contact, and the chimes of bells and squealing of pistons resounded throughout the air.

In her theatre, we sat alone together in the present moment.

With gentle hands, I braided her strands of jet-black hair, which were incredibly thick in texture, and curly in demeanor.

I liked doing simple, soft things with her. She seemed more than happy to let me do all the silly little things I did.

With the help of the nobleman Kitsch, we had been able to rent out a large theatre space, one we anticipated would hold the whole of Aethine. For the sake of the collaboration between the playwright and the poet, Kitsch Yulier had spared no effort in gathering ears to soothe with words.

The stage was as wide as her old theatre had been, and there were seats within the audience space that looked as if they would fit thousands upon thousands of people. Rather, it was not a single floor that housed seating, but rather several stacked on top of each other towards a roof that seemed as if it hung high in the sky. Each railing upon the upper floors sported golden-threaded lining, and bright-red curtains draped regally towards the ground.

Dozens of her static crewmembers worked within the rafters in the ceiling, painting portraitures upon the roof that would astound an audience who had never though to experience their beauty.

As I played with her hair, she put the whole of her effort into painting for the set of her play. I felt like a tag-along on her journey, and I thought wholly that it felt fine. I enjoyed walking her path hand-in-hand.

“It has always been a wonderment to me, Agreste...” Theresia spoke softly. “Why is it that you have no last name?”

“I have no family to speak of. In such a way, it serves to speak that I would have no surname.”

“Then, do you want to take mine?” She asked of me suddenly.

My gaze was filled with surprise, and quickly washed over with shadow.

“Is this your way of proposing to me, my dearest Theresia?”

She simply nodded in response.

An aching anxiousness had crept up towards my heart, and grasped it tightly, with no will to let it go.

So in turn I shook my head.

“I cannot marry you, Theresia.” I spoke simply in response, my gaze hard focused upon the wall of the theatre.

There was a clock on the wall, an object I had grown used to filling the silence of the air. Its gears whirred, and its hands ticked slowly as time wore away. Seconds were shaved off of the present, and I wondered why I did not grieve them as much as they should. My heart hurt for everything but the present, and I couldn't understand why.

“And why is that?” Theresia posed. “Am I not the one you would imagine yourself spending the rest of your life with?”

“No, it’s not that. I would readily spend the rest of my life with you, and take endless debt in a demon’s deal to live even a second more alongside you.” I said softly. “But…”

I could feel the expression on my face twisting in a sort of callous, unforgivably regretful manner.

“But…”

I couldn’t speak another word. As memories touched down on the forefront of my racing thoughts, my lip quivered, and my heart sank. My eyes grew tears like blossoming flowers, and my voice grew shakey.

So Theresia took me in her arms gently, and amidst her warmth and comfort, I cried.

I knew then I had been ignoring that which laid aside from guilt. It was the sadness of losing someone I had once cared deeply for.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered softly.

But she paid my apology no mind. 

I thought then that my smile was all she wanted. 

I had conquered 'love'.

But when would I conquer that word filled with so much regret?

When would I conquer the word that lost me my heart?

When could I speak of 'marriage' without faltering?