She’s beautiful.

No, the word is all wrong. Not suitable at all. Much too small to match the size of the feeling.

He is starving. He’s been starving. Don’t ask him how long exactly. Long enough that the emptiness inside him feels normal. He hasn’t forgotten, not [i]really[/i], but he’s forgotten enough that he can wake up, get dressed, and go about his business without falling to pieces. He knows he was full sometime, like he knows that once humanity warred with the Endless Azure Skies. Surely it happened at some point, but don’t ask him to describe much more than that, he’s not studied up on it recently. 

She is a big bowl of stew, served alongside a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, the kind that tears apart into big, fluffy chunks that were just made for mopping up broth.

She is a cabin you can just barely see through the snowstorm. Up ahead, if you squint, there are windows sharing the light from a big, roaring fire. And through the biting cold is the whiff of wood smoke, growing stronger with each step.

She is the voice saying come in, you must be hungry after such a hard journey.

Through the tinted lights and echoes of battle, he staggers towards the void. One step in front of the other. Arrow-straight through the rubble. He clutches his companion’s hands, and they keep him upright. He is too lost to notice one hand emerges from an oversized hoodie. 

Dolce is starving.

Dolce is going home.