Work Text:
He looks up at her, his dark eyes wide in the moonlight. Marc.
Layla stops short of touching him – the urge to card her fingers through his messy curls is overwhelming – her bewilderment at odds with her anger.
You left me. Her reflection wavers in the glass pyramid behind Marc. The memories of his flat circle through her mind. Are the vows we made not enough? You left me and never said why.
“N'écris pas. N'apprenons qu'à mourir à nous-mêmes. Ne demande qu'à Dieu… qu'à toi, si je t'aimais?” Layla recites, her hands shaking by her sides.
He doesn’t answer.