Also, regarding my PJO fic "Silver Bullets," the chapter would have been done by now if my laptop hadn't been stolen by mother. But, there was also a recent death in the family (RIP, Grandma ), so there in an adequate reason for haven't finished the chapter. I'm still a bit shaken from the whole experience and don't believe that it'll continue the tone I've started in the chapter (yes, the chapter has been half-written at the least and is a minimum of 1000 words so far).

I hope you guys understand the wait. :)

Love always.

Disclaimer: Uhm, I don't own Razia's Shadow. And that is all.

Summary: he likes to pretend that it never happened and she likes to pretend that it wasn't his fault.


make believe.*

he looks at her from across the bed and wishes that her eyes weren't closed and that she wasn't seeing the boy they both used to love. she looks at him everyday and wishes that she didn't feel satisfaction at his guilt.

(they wished a lot of things.)

it wasn't a topic spoken between the two of them, the boy; it was a secret locked in a box and neither of them want to find the key. because he likes to pretend that it never happened and she likes to pretend that it wasn't his fault. but in the morning, when he wakes, she's always at the grave, mourning her dead lover, and while she's away, he sits on the bed with his head in his hands and mourns his dead brother.

(it's one of those things that they know about but never speak of.)

during the day, the throne room is always quiet, even with the two of them together. it's another thing he feels as if he's taken and doesn't deserve. and though she doesn't show it, he knows that she feels the same.

(but sometimes she doesn't want to feel that way.)

the only time they speak is at sunset, a literal representation of their two different worlds, she likes to think. dark and light. day and night. a time where they let their walls down and they cry and they weep and they confess their sins because they're both grievers and dreamers grieving and dreaming for the same thing, and it's the one thing they have in common.

(they're too scared to admit that their much more alike than they'd like to be.)

and at the end of the day, when she's wrapped in his arms in a bed made for someone else, he's still the murderer saddled with guilt and she's still the bitter girl who points the finger at him.