Snippet time, snippet time!
As I said before, I have been struggling with the last stretch of my novel. One thing that I do when I feel lost, is write more info and/or re-read a scene that relates to the character that I am currently working on. And in that, I am going to introduce to you the Hazel's mate, Rayla.
The conception of Rayla in the infancy of my drafting, was a platonic soulmate for Hazel. She was to them, a Thelma to their Louise. Their bond was strong because of them meeting at low points in their life and creating the family, the pack, together.
But within writing and spending time with the character, I thought the relationship between her and Hazel ran deeper.
As a mental head canon, one that brought me closer to SAPPHIC, was the fact that Rayla is the only person that Hazel allows to touch their hair. For context, Hazel is very much a black character, with the textures hair traumas that often are prevalent within the black community. There is trauma within their gender and their hair, to the point where their big chop was after a traumatic event. Rayla is indigenous, and cultures within both diasporas, there is a connection of hair and love. Romantic, platonic, etc, but braiding and hair care is usually done with only those who you have bonds with. And so, Rayla learned to take care of Hazel's hair during the bad times, and that became a passionate thing between them.
And I wanted to share a bit of a snippet with that:
“You’re letting your ends get matted again?” It’s hardly a question as her fingers brush the knotted ends. Reactive to her touch, my body jolts away, facing her with a scowl. Her fingers splayed before she lowered them to her sides, expression softening before she nods. “Right.”
Those words hanging in the air, creating further space between us. I filled it with my frame, leaning back into her as I nuzzle the crook of her neck. Allowing me a moment, Rayla’s fingers trail along my jawline, tilting my face up to hers….
“You’re not her.” I whisper to, droplets littering my lashes. Bringing her fingers back to my hair, I wince instinctively but don’t let her pull away. “You’re not her,” I repeat once more, softly, as if a chant to myself.
Wrapping her free arm around me, Rayla tucked me ever closer into her embrace. Her hold was gentle, not pressing for more than I could give in that moment, but offering me a place to rest. A refuge from the ghosts of trauma that whispered in the back of my mind — speaking life to scars that, while invisible, itched at my spine as if they would pull me under. Gently, her nails scratched at my scalp, her hold on me secure and warm, as Rayla’s soft words tickled at my ear.
“There you are, love. You’re doing so well. In and out, keep breathing.”
I let her words ground me as I continued the chant, closing my eyes and breathing in until I could commit it to memory.
“You’re home, love.” Her nose bumped against mine, softly nuzzling against my ear and inhaling deeply. “You’re home.”
Repeating the sentiment until the tension is relieved in my nature, Rayla spent the rest of that day assisting with my hair. Checking in on me with each step as she washed, detangled, and helped snip the rougher ends, freeing me from those memories that knotted themselves into my hair. Each day, she read the coil patterns like a narrative, letting them guide her as she cared for me. Less of a routine, this became a ceremony, furthering the bond between us while allotting space for me to feel that safety to grow within our relationship…
And so, it was thinking of the moments like that, which made me realize there was a deeper love there. Which is why this book became a why choose!
