She's a long way from Berlin, that's for sure. Even Bristol seems a whole world away, for the Effy standing outside the station in London. Her skirt covers a little more area, her eyeliner is a little more sparse. "Business casual" is still a bit of a reach, but she tried. Maybe the dress code should've been the first sign.
"Yeah. Sure." Her tone is brusque, as though brushing off the gratitude. She's already moved onto the next project. It begins in an orderly way, folds precise and intentional. Meaningful. Partway through, though, it all falls apart -- whatever it was supposed to be, she clearly only has the start of it, and once she falters on the rest, it totally loses its shape. She folds, then unfolds, then folds again, but the damage is done.
Maybe she should've learned. She should've done loads of things.
"Nothing," she says with a shrug, sighing beneath the unlit cigarette as she pulls off another sheet. "But they don't mean anything anymore. Not like this. No one gives a fuck about them, like this."
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"Yeah. Sure." Her tone is brusque, as though brushing off the gratitude. She's already moved onto the next project. It begins in an orderly way, folds precise and intentional. Meaningful. Partway through, though, it all falls apart -- whatever it was supposed to be, she clearly only has the start of it, and once she falters on the rest, it totally loses its shape. She folds, then unfolds, then folds again, but the damage is done.
Maybe she should've learned. She should've done loads of things.
"Nothing," she says with a shrug, sighing beneath the unlit cigarette as she pulls off another sheet. "But they don't mean anything anymore. Not like this. No one gives a fuck about them, like this."