isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
She is still confused by them, and how some of them are more like her – closed up and drawn tight – and then others are like him – bubbling over and blossoming at the sight of anyone. Overt happiness is just as much a mystery to her as anger is; both called upon too much emotion, though they seemed to take root from different places. She still cannot fathom where any of them manage to get it from; how they must be able to draw up from different wells, until they are overflowing with it and it spills out their eyes and their mouths, and she wonders if it makes anyone else feel as though they are drowning bystanders or if that is just her.
Still, her lips pull into a mechanical smile, because that is the one reflex she has managed to learn. She could never even begin to match his enthusiasm, and she does not try, but instead watches him with a calm, slow blink of her eyes.
He refers to the flowers, and she looks down at them, but she does not see what he sees. She sees them like she sees the stars – some of them burn brighter than the others, some of them fall, and some of them are the mapping of constellations, but they are still stars. And like the stars, the flowers can do nothing but grow and bloom, just as they were meant to. She does not understand how one could be more perfect than the other. “If a flower is being a flower, then it’s already perfect,” she says in that simple, concise way of her.
She is distracted by the flowers, though, and finds herself staring at him. He is different than most, just like her – though he wears his differences on the outside, while hers is trapped inside. “What are you?” It does not occur to her that the question could sound impolite, or that there were more tactful ways to ask such a question.
@[Velkan]