Example

It was unlike him to do so, as he sipped on a glass of wine, gripping the cup like a life-line. Memories swam through his head, memories he never wanted to return. Memories he burned.

 

N'ikola wanted to run away again, back to the trees and the snow.

 

The smell of ice and ozone as a blizzard crashed through Ishgard. This was never the narrative he wanted, but it is the one he got. By candle light, he set the parchment down, humming a sweet tune as he downed the rest of the glass, only to pour another.

 

A song on his pen, like wooden windchimes made to ward off evil doers, muddied and dull, but just as bright. Relationships are not transactional, his mother always lectured him, "you could never buy them with money nor gifts. They were more like a dance." He swirled the red liquid like a gown in a ballroom. This friendship was a waltz, a Tango of almost-somethings. N'ikola tried to pinpoint the exact moment that things changed, the moment where he suddenly didn’t see a bottle of wine, just an escape that was a glass away. He’s still not sure exactly when that moment was, he can’t really explain how it happened, something inside of him just needed to be destroyed suddenly. There were no answers at the bottom of the bottle, but he wasn’t sure what the questions were in the first place.