[ putting her hand in his feels like surrendering some piece of her. it feels like accepting the premise — not in performance, but in truth. perhaps because she does agree, on some level. no matter what else is true, there is something unavoidable about their sameness. lessons in grisha philosophy return to her — odinakovost, and how like calls to like.
she takes his hand anyway. ]
Like what? [ she can't imagine any. she hasn't even begun to grapple with his insinuation that she might be as eternal as he is. it creeps in now, though, and she asks, ] How are you so sure that I'll be as long-lived? I'm not aging slowly. Look. I've got wrinkles. [ she holds up her other hand so that he can consider the creases of her knuckles, as if those are ... the same as wrinkles??? teenagers smh. ]
no subject
she takes his hand anyway. ]
Like what? [ she can't imagine any. she hasn't even begun to grapple with his insinuation that she might be as eternal as he is. it creeps in now, though, and she asks, ] How are you so sure that I'll be as long-lived? I'm not aging slowly. Look. I've got wrinkles. [ she holds up her other hand so that he can consider the creases of her knuckles, as if those are ... the same as wrinkles??? teenagers smh. ]