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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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Bryony barely heard the other girl’s words. She didn’t really need to; she could guess the general gist of them. That there was no point in giving up yet, that there was always a chance that they’d manage to escape or get rescued or that some other miracle would happen, that all Bryony needed to do was keep on hoping for the best. That sort of thing. The sort of thing you said out loud to convince yourself as much as anyone else.

You didn’t need to hear every single word someone was saying to you to figure out what their message was. The girl’s tone of voice was soft, calming; slightly firm and yet soothing still. Like her mom’s whenever Bryony had come crying to her as a little girl. Or like Alice’s when Bryony had broken down in front of her. It wasn’t the same tone as any of the bullies at school, piercing, direct and louder than necessary. Nor was it the tone Bethany used, close to normal were it not for the slight edge to it that let both siblings know who would always have the upper hand. No, this girl who was practically a stranger honestly wanted to help her out.

It was that fact, more than anything she said, that saved Bryony. She’d always tried to keep an optimistic outlook on life, no matter how much it tried to prove her wrong. No matter how much she wanted to believe there was good in everyone, there wasn’t. That was an awful truth. Some people were just assholes who’d kick you in the teeth at every opportunity they got. But there were good people, even if they weren’t good all the time; people who would do the decent thing when push came to shove.

Bryony lifted her head up, eyes bright red, tears sticking to the inside of her glasses and strands of wet hair plastered against her forehead. She was just able to hear the last part of the girl’s final sentence. Bryony looked at her for a few moments, looking like she was about to burst into tears again, but instead she bit her lip and nodded.


Slowly, knees knocking against each other and legs feeling like they were made of matchsticks, Bryony clambered to her feet. She could feel the wind again, like ice on her damp skin, and she wrapped her arms around herself to try and stay warm.

“Um… I’m, um, Bryony, by the way… I’m sorry, I can’t… can’t, um, remember your name…”


"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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