we're such saps

Just looking at Mythra sandblasts all the age into Minoth's face, every egress and eyebag that he hides so well.

She doesn't know, can't tell, what it is that he's not saying, won't say, because if she knew what it was then she'd be thinking it too. Even one so contrarianly independent-minded as she.

"Mythra..."

She gazes off the edge of the roof, into middle distance, at a Tirkin prodding an Armu away from its scrawny little vegetable patch. As if all the Armu wants to do is destroy.

Am I too basic? I just wanna be human with you.