Stolen Voices ✓

November 11th

Can I borrow a kiss?

I promise I'll give it back.

(Pick up line of the century)

November 11th:

Sometimes moments feel so flawless it is as if they are drawn on a canvas, with the precise strokes of a famed artist. The dusk of night is such a perfect hue of dark blue, almost black. The stars, forming an aligned pattern, like freckles of the night. High above the sky. And the moon, the symmetrical round sphere of ivory light that sits above it all.

Mara savors the night, even surmounting up on her rooftop just to watch it. She will try to score each star, learn the patterns which form constellations. Her fingertips, tracing the air between them as if connecting them with an intangible line.

When she was young, the night seemed to be the only thing that remained the same in her life. Of course, her family was steadily moving before her father became a partner at his company, finally settling down in one place. That didn't stop Mara from burning through private schools, similar to her sister burning through her allowance.

Wherever she went in the world, the stars remained the same, evoked the same passion. Everyone is seeing the same stars, the same opalescent moon, the perfect drawing.

Mara's love for the stars extends to wishing on them, though she never believes her fantasies would come true. It is more a game, to look for a shooting star and imitate something in her life could be healed. She doesn't believe in fairytales, or happy endings, or love for that matter. She likes to pretend, in the middle of the night with nobody but the star's attention, she will wish for something better.

However, better never came, and quickly the stars became impotent.

Tonight it is mirk, and Mara has fallen for the darkness. The group is gathered on the beach, all nestled around a fire. It sparks, crackling into the evening, sending embers towards the sand. Its smoke swirls towards the amended stars, shining brighter tonight than ever before.

The waves produce a soft resonance as they crashed against the shore, erasing what is left of the sandcastle they had created. Everyone's chatter around them is flooded out by the static that fills her ears with the pulling tautness of his gaze. Within the orange flames, Elias's eyes met hers, not breaking their contact.

"I'm smart," Will's booming voice breaks their trance, dragging their attention towards where he huffs. He is standing feet away from the fire, a half-empty beer in one of his hands, the other flailing around. Ryn is belittling him on how he managed to get into Berkeley, of all schools. Will, is, to say the least, not the brightest.

He is a legacy, though, and improved his grades enough to get in.

"Sure, what does sphallolalia mean?" Elias chuckles in all his literature glory. He decided he wants to go into journalism, his mind operating as a dictionary. Leaning back in the cold sand, with no sun to warm its grains, his weight on his elbows. His legs are stretched out in front of him, the fire's heat making his skin flushed.

"Flirtatious talk that leads nowhere," Will smirks, crossing his arms over his chest in a proud stance. Everyone laughs at him, a chiming sound that choruses through the open exposure. It dulls, but the smile that falls on Mara's lips remains, even after Elias' eyes dart towards her, beaming.

"Of course you know that," Ryn rolls her eyes, snorting as she brings the alcohol to her lips. She is a little tipsy, slurring her words, though her spark never leaves, "it's the story of your life."