Well, here's to living in the moment
'Cause it passed.
'Cause it passed.
Late March, 1888 — Crowdy Memorial Library
Not seeing Elsie was the worst thing in the world. What was it people said: absence made the heart grow fonder? More like absence drove you mad, maybe. It wasn't as though they'd seen each other often before being found out, but now the separation - staying away intentionally - felt even worse, maybe because the possibility of a next time had already spiralled down the drain.
It wasn't all Lucinda Cavanaugh's fault. If anything, Tybalt was quietly grateful to her, because her bite did not appear to be quite as bad as her bark. It was still the off-season, but he hadn't been fired, as far as he knew. He had not been chased down by an angry Beauregard mother, which was also something. If anyone else in Elsie's family had found out, Tyb was unaware.
She was still working at the library as usual, too. He knew this because he was here, restless at a library table - here to see her. It had felt wrong, ending the evening so abruptly without seeing Elsie again at all, curiosity and concern steadily burning a hole in his head at what might've happened to her since. He'd wanted to write. But writing was hard, and Tybalt would much rather get to have this conversation in person.
He'd waited as long as he possibly could (over a month) because he didn't want to risk a repeat of the quidditch party situation, and even though they needed to talk - they had to, when everything felt unfinished and unresolved - the new resolutions simmering at the back of his mind kept reminding him that this might well be the last time they saw each other, really, if he tried to do things properly and things still did not work out.
The swell of apprehension and uncertainty was broken by relief when Tyb finally caught sight of Elsie not far away. He pushed up from the table, tucking a book under his arm - a feeble excuse, since he'd barely glanced at it - before he wandered in her vague direction, waiting for her to see him. When she did, he shot her a brief smile and a furtive quirk of his eyebrow, an expression that said can we talk?
It wasn't all Lucinda Cavanaugh's fault. If anything, Tybalt was quietly grateful to her, because her bite did not appear to be quite as bad as her bark. It was still the off-season, but he hadn't been fired, as far as he knew. He had not been chased down by an angry Beauregard mother, which was also something. If anyone else in Elsie's family had found out, Tyb was unaware.
She was still working at the library as usual, too. He knew this because he was here, restless at a library table - here to see her. It had felt wrong, ending the evening so abruptly without seeing Elsie again at all, curiosity and concern steadily burning a hole in his head at what might've happened to her since. He'd wanted to write. But writing was hard, and Tybalt would much rather get to have this conversation in person.
He'd waited as long as he possibly could (over a month) because he didn't want to risk a repeat of the quidditch party situation, and even though they needed to talk - they had to, when everything felt unfinished and unresolved - the new resolutions simmering at the back of his mind kept reminding him that this might well be the last time they saw each other, really, if he tried to do things properly and things still did not work out.
The swell of apprehension and uncertainty was broken by relief when Tyb finally caught sight of Elsie not far away. He pushed up from the table, tucking a book under his arm - a feeble excuse, since he'd barely glanced at it - before he wandered in her vague direction, waiting for her to see him. When she did, he shot her a brief smile and a furtive quirk of his eyebrow, an expression that said can we talk?
