maybe it was her fault. maybe she loved too quickly, too deeply, too used to being ignored and starved of love that she pounced on any scraps that someone was generous enough to offer her. maybe it was her fault. he was too beautiful to be real, the kind of beautiful that hurt to look at and burned her fingertips when she touched him. maybe it was her fault. but maybe it was his, too. maybe he never gave her a damn thing at all.

((a Montparnasse/Eponine mix))

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