Re: Upstairs, outside the open window: Hannah/Rey
"I think answers that aren't nice, they're as important as the ones that are nice. I think it's probably cliche to say that we don't know nice without bad to compare it to, and I wish there wasn't any bad at all, but I do think I've learned a lot more from the bad things than from the good ones," she explained, ramble and thoughts that meandered like rivers from bed to bed.
She smiled over at the woman, warm and reassuring. Bad things would come, just like they'd come before. That was just living, and she suspected the quiet woman beside her knew these things. She thought she could see it in the other woman's eyes.
"Everyone has a story, don't they?" she asked, but her expression was serene in the knowledge that, yes, everyone was their own novel. "My parents fixed old homes. The big ones that had been asleep too long, and like people who got lonely and bitter. Houses, I mean. Houses are like that, and one day they picked the wrong house." It wasn't everything, and maybe it wasn't even the thing people would consider most important, but she couldn't tell people what she was; it was too dangerous. And, somehow, somehow, the house was still more important, the foundation, and I'm dead was just a thing that came after.
"Houses are alive," she added, a lift of shoulder and her attention returning to the world beyond their roof. "But they're not all bad." Reassuringly, and she smiled over at Rey again.