Heavy Things

Her hair was wild, falling long over her shoulders and back. But her eyes were sad. A shadow graced the places just beneath them, long dark lashes contrasted with the vibrant color, reminding him of dew soaked meadows, of sunlight through leaves. He could feel it, almost, her sadness. Which was unusual. He wasn’t an idiot, but being intuitive was certainly not what anyone who knew him would call a particular strength. Yet, he felt her sorrow. Beneath it, the longer he looked at her, he also sensed a deep rooted strength, like a hidden well that never ran dry.

Sorrow and strength. 

Poetic, that.

Even still, he knew a desire to hold her. Perhaps to be strong for her. To help her bear whatever weight she carried so well. 

“It’s heavy, isn’t it?” he said at last. 

“What’s that?” her eyebrows furrowed, his words surprising her.

“Whatever it is you’re carrying.”

“Yes,” she smiled then, slowly, a little sadly, “but I was made to carry heavy things.”

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