lousillian
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She's racing across the palace grounds and isn’t looking where she’s going when slams right into someone. She squeaks, nearly toppling over before the man she bumped into grabs her forearms, steadying her.
“Hello.” He says, and then murmurs, almost to himself, “You look just like Wille.”
“I know.” She’s been told that her whole life. She and her father share the same dirty blond hair, brown eyes, and slightly crooked smile. It’s different when this man says it though. Almost more personal somehow.
“Sorry,” he says, his kind brown eyes twinkling with an odd mix of wistfulness and amusement, “you probably don’t recognize me, I’m-“
“-Simon Vasquez.” Myla breathes, taking in his greying curls and the slight quirk of his lopsided smile, “I know.”
And she does. This is the only person her father has ever loved. This is the man who her father associates with the colour purple. He's the reason her dad's bedroom walls have been violet longer than she's been alive, because when her father is surrounded by the colour he's surrounded by the memory of him.
Bookmarked by lousillian
16 Jan 2023