These days it was getting a little harder to hold it together, by the by.

That didn't mean that much. Life still went on. Every day things happened, and they happened just fine, and they kept happening -- easy, normal, nothing too out of place in anyone else's life. Sparrow went to work and didn't bite the heads of any customers off (despite how much ze would've liked to), and didn't wear a single pronoun pin (which weren't accurate anyway, because explaining neopronouns to people at large was a goddamn nightmare and not worth it, but anything was better than being read as a girl), and steadfastedly managed to keep zemself from breaking any of the stupid ******** merchandise. Especially the tacky ******** lamps, which picked up more dust than lamps should've been capable of collecting. Maybe it was spontaneously generated.

That was falling into being routine, after a few months, and that burned and bled whenever ze looked directly at it. It wasn't supposed to be routine. It wasn't supposed to be familiar or easy to go through the motions with. It was supposed to just be something temporary, something to cover time and put a little money in zyr pocket all the way until it was done, but.

It wasn't going to be done. That was simple. That was - that was something else ze couldn't look at. Wouldn't look at. Because any sort of self-admission that everything was over for now and for at least the next six months, how could ze ever think it'd be anything but, hurt so bad it brought zem to tears - classes would be a distraction. Or school classes, anyway. So it was easier to start flinging zemself full force into other things, things that didn't so much have grades attached, things that took up all of zyr brainspace and left zem weary when they were over.

Things like:
More sword training, again. Trying more than just rapiers this time - working on longswords. The weight was all different, but it was a good sort of exhaustion when all was said and done. So what if Larimar couldn't benefit from longsword training? It wasn't as if ze was benefiting from rapier training anyway, daggers weren't exactly the most similar weapons in the world.

Things like:
Kicking zyr way into the theatre scene, adjacent to people ze'd known before but trying not to run directly in the same circles, not with a different name and a different self. Too much trouble to explain, to pressure, to change predetermined thought. Managing lights was distracting enough to hold the full of zyr attention and thought

Other things, though, held less power but still worthwhile of note: singing softly in zyr bedroom, trying to wrangle the shape of zyr voice, trying to make it into something that ze didn't hate. Nothing was ever written for mezzo sopranos, anyways, not in anything, so it always quieted down that last temporary wish of reentering the stage.

But it was all within reason. It could all be managed. So what if throwing zemself into all these other things was exhausting, was a trial, was almost painful? The distraction had to be there, or it would make everything involuntary ever so impossible. Familial things couldn't be avoided. Familial things couldn't be kept out of. It felt like pulling teeth, like pulling nails.

Like biting zyr tongue, every day, going constant. Like numbing the edges of the hole so it hurt less if ze wasn't looking at it.

Sparrow was holding it together. So what did the rest of it matter?