It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly. He wanted the feeling of time—the sharp sting of the cold, the way a hot cup of tea felt against frozen palms, the messy, complicated noise of being human.
"Christmas," he whispered, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "I want to live so much." rozdestvo_tak_xocetsya_zit
The city was a blur of neon and slush, but inside the small apartment on the fourth floor, the air smelled of dried orange peels and old books. Pyotr sat by the window, his breath fogging the glass. Outside, the world was celebrating Christmas Eve, a whirlwind of laughter and heavy coats, but inside, the silence was heavy. It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly
It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly. He wanted the feeling of time—the sharp sting of the cold, the way a hot cup of tea felt against frozen palms, the messy, complicated noise of being human.
"Christmas," he whispered, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "I want to live so much."
The city was a blur of neon and slush, but inside the small apartment on the fourth floor, the air smelled of dried orange peels and old books. Pyotr sat by the window, his breath fogging the glass. Outside, the world was celebrating Christmas Eve, a whirlwind of laughter and heavy coats, but inside, the silence was heavy.