The milk fell on the bowl like dancing, twirling through the sides before settling in the bottom. Pure. Safe. Pristine.
“Milk before cereal.” She said, sitting across him. All messy hair and heavy eyes. “I knew something had to be wrong with you.” She added. And he knew.
He knew right there that he could show his weirdness to her. He knew his walls would melt, like the butter on her toast. He knew he wouldn’t mind his heart broken by her. He basked in the fear of hurt. Of pain. Even if it was to be excruciating, he would take it. Even that couldn’t be worse than the emptiness of a heart never before shared. The cold perfection of a soul never touched. He was mesmerized.
The milk spilled.
Yeah... the photo has nothing to do with the story. Wanted to capture the salty-sweet whiteness of the milk... but I have none. Cries over the not spilled milk. Anyway, this one sounds to me a little chiché, that wasn't my intention. Still, it kinda worked out. I hope you like it!