"You will. Yes. You can slip it." And I can't--that's what it feels like, anyway. Every day in New York was a noose tightening around her neck, a hail of stones hitting the ground closer to where she stood. Wolverine, Cyclops--they could withstand it. They have before.
I can't.
She's quiet for a long moment after he speaks, the whole world shuttering down to the sound of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. His hope sounds like a promise. It doesn't sound possible.
"I don't..." she starts, head drooping a little, and takes another breath. Ruth doesn't want it to come out, but the sentiment is desperate to escape her lips. Her fingers rest on the glass; they feel like they're threatening to be sucked inside of it. (Would that be so bad? Encased in glass, bled dry by whatever's pulling at her skin right now. It would be over.) "Pardon. I don't remember what hope feels like."
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I can't.
She's quiet for a long moment after he speaks, the whole world shuttering down to the sound of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. His hope sounds like a promise. It doesn't sound possible.
"I don't..." she starts, head drooping a little, and takes another breath. Ruth doesn't want it to come out, but the sentiment is desperate to escape her lips. Her fingers rest on the glass; they feel like they're threatening to be sucked inside of it. (Would that be so bad? Encased in glass, bled dry by whatever's pulling at her skin right now. It would be over.) "Pardon. I don't remember what hope feels like."