[You know how this is supposed to be a safe haven but Tate's not sure if the invite is still open for him? Especially on rainy evenings when the scent of dirt and mud from the woods is up in the air, thick with wet leaves and the simple scent of cold air and misery. But that's the kind of evening he's there on, in a leather jacket that does little to repel the raindrops but smells like the man he's there to find. At least in this weather it's hard to tell what streaks down his face are raindrops and which are tears, the burn of salt along his lash line making him angrily wipe at his eyes as he stands next to a thick tree trunk as he stares in at Derek's house like the haunting, pale faced ghost he is.
She's gone.
He wanted to text that to him, to Stiles, to - anyone who would understand what it meant. But he doesn't like the way he gets looked at for being hung up on her, still in love with the scent of her hair and the way her eyes would meet his even for an instant. He'd taken to checking in on her in only mildly invasive ways, trying to watch her from afar and see - what she gets up to. What she does, day to day. But he hasn't seen her, hasn't been able to find her and... well. It looks bleak.
She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
He thought he would handle this better. He thought he knew how to move on, but the idea of her being gone again rips a hole in his chest. The idea of not being able to win her back to him, to feel her hand on his face or hear her laugh at something he said? To never be able to have her say she forgives him, or have her welcome him back into her arms with a soft I love you? He'll never have that now. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
Arguably, he should be doing better than this. He is, if you account for the fact he hasn't trashed anything yet and only stole a few belongings - leaving a note on the off chance she returns. Leaving it in hopes she comes back, maybe to get mad at him for trespassing, to give him an excuse to hand her back her ipod with a hung head and grateful apology. He's only cried a few times, bitter and cold like this, but he's thought to reach out. Just struggled with how.]
can i come in?
[He texts to Derek, before knocking his knuckles on the front door.]
no subject
She's gone.
He wanted to text that to him, to Stiles, to - anyone who would understand what it meant. But he doesn't like the way he gets looked at for being hung up on her, still in love with the scent of her hair and the way her eyes would meet his even for an instant. He'd taken to checking in on her in only mildly invasive ways, trying to watch her from afar and see - what she gets up to. What she does, day to day. But he hasn't seen her, hasn't been able to find her and... well. It looks bleak.
She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
He thought he would handle this better. He thought he knew how to move on, but the idea of her being gone again rips a hole in his chest. The idea of not being able to win her back to him, to feel her hand on his face or hear her laugh at something he said? To never be able to have her say she forgives him, or have her welcome him back into her arms with a soft I love you? He'll never have that now. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
Arguably, he should be doing better than this. He is, if you account for the fact he hasn't trashed anything yet and only stole a few belongings - leaving a note on the off chance she returns. Leaving it in hopes she comes back, maybe to get mad at him for trespassing, to give him an excuse to hand her back her ipod with a hung head and grateful apology. He's only cried a few times, bitter and cold like this, but he's thought to reach out. Just struggled with how.]
can i come in?
[He texts to Derek, before knocking his knuckles on the front door.]