Wendy had wormed its way back to Irene fast and easy. It was expected, especially after Irene found herself lost in the stars that made Wendy’s eyes and the flowers that made her heart. She found herself craving for more, more, and more, clutching on to pretty words and tying them together in a pretty bow, taking out weeds and only leaving the pretty things in show.

Wendy lingers in every inch of her skin and in the crevices of her heart and lungs, leaving her gasping for air, desperate for love that is meant for someone else.

But if there were one thing, one part that connects Wendy to Irene, she would say that it’s her hands.

Not . Not the thing that spews the beautiful words and gargles the doubts. Not the one that chews fragments and uncertainty into rose-colored spit.

Not her heart, unfortunately not her heart. It’s way too far, and apparently too cold to love her like that.

Wendy’s hands are the warmest. Whenever she cradles Irene’s hands in them, she melts in a puddle and she couldn’t stand up again.

Just like how she is now.

They’re less than a kilometer away from her house and their time is ticking, but the cars are moving in a snail’s pace. Wendy pulls at the hand brake. Irene looks out the window, wondering when she can indulge in this again.

Irene detests traffic jams, except when she’s sitting on the passenge