[ She waits. She doesn't press again or make more demands (yet?), and she gives him that moment to stand there with whatever mess must be twisting him up into knots.
(Because she's right there with him, all tangled and full of a pain she'd thought didn't haunt her step so heavily.)
The photos are set into her palm, and it almost surprises her. Instead of commenting on that itself, she folds the images over – back facing out, concealing the horror inside. And then—
She rips them into half. And then quarters. She clenches the pile of glossy prints in her fist until the shreds are practically indistinguishable from any scrap of trash one might find on the street. ]
no subject
(Because she's right there with him, all tangled and full of a pain she'd thought didn't haunt her step so heavily.)
The photos are set into her palm, and it almost surprises her. Instead of commenting on that itself, she folds the images over – back facing out, concealing the horror inside. And then—
She rips them into half. And then quarters. She clenches the pile of glossy prints in her fist until the shreds are practically indistinguishable from any scrap of trash one might find on the street. ]
The one in your pocket.