Oh. Greta blinks in surprise as a second disembodied voice enters the mix. It only takes her a moment to realize it seems to have assigned itself to Iman the way her own voice has been tormenting her, and it's clear that Iman can hear it, too. That probably means that Iman can hear her voice as well, which would probably concern her if she wasn't too busy gaping at the sudden onslaught of Iman's narration.
Oh, goodness.
She's gone crimson by the time Iman's voice pronounces her flawless, and has to cover her mouth to hide a grin of mortified delight. She probably shouldn't be enjoying this when Iman so clearly isn't, but, well, it's sweet. She drops her hand when Iman staggers back, reaching after her with a sympathetic wince. "Iman, wait..."
But Iman's voice isn't finished. Greta pulls up short, eyes widening as it brings up those texts - not just mentioning them, but reciting them. She'd been curious about them; the only reason she hadn't asked about them before was because they'd been sent months ago from a phone Iman no longer even had. She'd assumed the details had been forgotten.
:Apparently not,: her voice observes quietly, just before Iman shouts at her own voice, nabs the nearest bottle of wine, and bolts.
"Oh, not again." Greta fists a hand in her skirt, hiking it up enough to hopefully keep from tripping over it, and follows.
:Why does this keep happening?: her voice wonders as she gives chase. :She supposes it would make sense if Iman's feelings for her were still a secret, but they're not. She already knows Iman had a crush on her for ages, she even knew the texts happened. Iman can't possibly think Greta would find any of it upsetting, honestly.:
This is ridiculous. Greta pauses long enough to kick off her shoes, and not being in heels gives her enough of an advantage to finally catch up. "Iman, stop." She stretches forward, finally seizing Iman by the hand that isn't already occupied by a wine bottle, bringing both of them to a standstill.
:That's better. She hates it when Iman runs from her; she always has. And this time, she's not even sure why it's happened. How else could she feel after that outburst but terribly flattered?:
And now this. Iman can probably hear it. Well, let her. Fair's fair. Greta releases her skirt and smoothes it over with her palm as she catches her breath, still keeping a tight hold on Iman's hand, lest she get any ideas.
:She's so lucky - lucky to have Iman, lucky to be so well-loved. She can't imagine running from this. She can't imagine wanting to.:
Oh, god. Greta buries her face in her free hand, then peeks at Iman from between her fingers. "You have one of these voices, too," she says, unable to fully mask her relief. "I thought it was just me."
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Oh, goodness.
She's gone crimson by the time Iman's voice pronounces her flawless, and has to cover her mouth to hide a grin of mortified delight. She probably shouldn't be enjoying this when Iman so clearly isn't, but, well, it's sweet. She drops her hand when Iman staggers back, reaching after her with a sympathetic wince. "Iman, wait..."
But Iman's voice isn't finished. Greta pulls up short, eyes widening as it brings up those texts - not just mentioning them, but reciting them. She'd been curious about them; the only reason she hadn't asked about them before was because they'd been sent months ago from a phone Iman no longer even had. She'd assumed the details had been forgotten.
:Apparently not,: her voice observes quietly, just before Iman shouts at her own voice, nabs the nearest bottle of wine, and bolts.
"Oh, not again." Greta fists a hand in her skirt, hiking it up enough to hopefully keep from tripping over it, and follows.
:Why does this keep happening?: her voice wonders as she gives chase. :She supposes it would make sense if Iman's feelings for her were still a secret, but they're not. She already knows Iman had a crush on her for ages, she even knew the texts happened. Iman can't possibly think Greta would find any of it upsetting, honestly.:
This is ridiculous. Greta pauses long enough to kick off her shoes, and not being in heels gives her enough of an advantage to finally catch up. "Iman, stop." She stretches forward, finally seizing Iman by the hand that isn't already occupied by a wine bottle, bringing both of them to a standstill.
:That's better. She hates it when Iman runs from her; she always has. And this time, she's not even sure why it's happened. How else could she feel after that outburst but terribly flattered?:
And now this. Iman can probably hear it. Well, let her. Fair's fair. Greta releases her skirt and smoothes it over with her palm as she catches her breath, still keeping a tight hold on Iman's hand, lest she get any ideas.
:She's so lucky - lucky to have Iman, lucky to be so well-loved. She can't imagine running from this. She can't imagine wanting to.:
Oh, god. Greta buries her face in her free hand, then peeks at Iman from between her fingers. "You have one of these voices, too," she says, unable to fully mask her relief. "I thought it was just me."