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Summary
“Clarke,” a cracking whisper, foundations forgotten to the quicksand below, “Please, Clarke, look at me.”
And you do—stupidly you do.
She’s beautiful in ways that aren’t put into Hollywood movies, or into mainstream magazines—no Photoshop, and no perfectly smooth edges. Lexa is the spiral of a hurricane barreling toward a tropical coast, gaining strength, spinning faster and faster until she hits her inevitable end against forest edges and mountain tops. Headfast into oblivion. She is the nebula on the other side of the galaxy, hanging in the black of space for eons, and eons—colors, and textures, and stardust mixing together and pulling apart. She is an alluring mess, a heartfelt tragedy.
And you’re just goodbye.