#the Simp ery . in here 2nite .. grodie

[frncs]

the bouquet of balloon flowers is nestled in the space between his thumb and forefinger, the card slotted adjacent and the cupcake, towered with frosting burns a single candle, balanced in his palm. he raps gently against the door with his free hand, early, but not early enough ( hopefully ) to provoke the irritation of her roommates. there’s a twenty-five percent chance that she opens the door, so maybe this is sign that he should buy a lottery ticket. he clears his throat, mornings don’t wear off for him until long into the afternoon - his voice is slightly hoarse. ‘   happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear,   ’ his voice cracks slightly trying for the high note which lurches him into an unpracticed falsetto, ‘   luna, happy birthday to you.    ’ the end of the performance melds into a breathy, self-conscious laugh. he’s caught on her gaze when instinct drags it down to the cupcake, a dribble of wax dropping down the side of the candle. he raises the cupcake towards her, as though believing the wax would rise with it too. ‘   oh, quick, make a wish.   ’ @lunaseongs

the card’s a stolen page from his scrapbook, which is a collection of memento’s and miscellaneous things he’s found that can be pressed : dropped flower petals, fallen leaves, shiny candy wrappers counted as litter until he picks it up. he chooses a page with a piece of silver tinsel that snakes across the entire page, the bare spaces decorated with leaves so dead that they’d still crunch if he’d decided to try and glue them instead of pinning them down with packing tape. it’s folded in half. in a black, boyish scrawl, the inside reads:

Happy Birthday Luna! Twenty-one! It feels odd to have missed so many years, but we have so much to catch up on now and I’m grateful for that. Like the backlog of our memories is proof you’re really here. I’m so happy you’re here.

Did you know Flowers in the Mold got an English release last year?

he hadn’t, until he’d seen it in that gigantic bookstore in london, the name of it escaping him. he’d bought it immediately, devoured it in one night, dog-earring pages and underlining the parallels between the stories, searching for evidence that the woman in the woman next door was the same woman in flowers of mold. luna had been on every single page ; she was in waxen wings, the way she’d told the story coming into focus - she wasn’t even translating it for him, just recounting the story, but the care with which she did was meticulous, as if the author would come and reprimand her if she did a poor job. luna had told him how the woman had gotten to fly, even though it had ended in an accident where she lost her leg. somehow he hadn’t found it as devastating when she’d said it as he had when he’d read it. she was in your rearview mirror, quite literally. luna and the man. partners in magic, until a bus crash. he likes that one the most, even though the ending had made him cry. and she was in every rigor mortis mention, every time a living person went looking for something dead and came up empty, she was in the misremembering, the sole shoes left behind, the wanting to fly.

That’s just one of the things we have to catch up on. I got a bit obsessed with trying to figure out what each story meant. But it’s not the really the type of book you can figure out. I bet you knew that way before me.

Cheers (do you drink?) to all the time in the world.

it’s still feels like a miracle.

Love from,

Frank

P.S. I promise your next gift will be better. Though the flowers do last incredibly long, you don’t even have to put them in water!

#i was gna submit this bt idt u can Read More ): #the Simp ery . in here 2nite .. grodie #i do lov luna wit all my heart tho .. hope her fictional butt is havin the best bday in the world .. #ft. / luna .