Brinly
She can’t remember the last time anyone was kind to her. If she stopped to think, and if she tried to look past the veil she had created where she has convinced herself she is rightfully the victim, she would maybe realize she does not receive kindness because she does not give it out. She is always edged and ready to combust, with nerves so frayed that the slightest look of disapproval was enough to ignite her. She doesn’t give anyone else the chance to think that she could be worth it; she doesn’t give that kind of hope a chance to breathe, afraid that it might find life and she would be forced to recognize what she wants.
She can’t imagine the spiral that would follow if she let herself believe she was ever worth anything, only to find that she wasn’t.
But something about the stranger, with her woven birds that swoop and twirl, it almost makes her forget to be afraid. Her guard is not lowered – not by a longshot, with her dark eyes that remain shadowed behind her forelock, and the harsh lines of her face – but she allows herself to be curious, at least. She tries to smile at her humor, but it is a faint, fleeting twitch of her lips. She is so focused on not appearing angry she is hardly listening, watching the makeshift birds in hopes that the stranger won’t see her eyes and won’t see her for what she really is.
There is a brief stretch of silence, and she feels the weight that settles into it. This makes her look up, and she realizes that she had asked her a question. “Oh,” she says softly, trying to remember the last thing she had heard her say. “I do like them, yes.” She means it, and she can only hope her face portrays it. She was bad at this, but for once, she was trying. “My name is Brinly, by the way.”
— burn until our lives become the embers —
@[Isilya]