isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
He is a complete mystery to her, because she is confused by the connection they are forging. She is certain that it will disappear once she steps away. She is certain that once they break whatever strange contact he has made, whatever emotions he was filtering into her, she would feel nothing again. Would she even remember what this had felt like? Would she feel that ache of longing and emptiness where all this emotion had once been, or would she drift back into an endless expanse of just nothing?
She listens to him, quiet and thoughtful, but she flicks her eyes to meet his face at one of the last things he says. “Comfort...in what way?” There is confusion, because he does not appear sad, or particularly despondent, but perhaps she is not intuitive enough to read what others hide below the surface. And that brings forth a different kind of question, something she had never before considered, what it must be like to feel one and portray yourself as something else. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much comfort to anyone,” she tells him softly.
Maybe it was the remnants of the emotion he had projected onto her, but the thought elicits a twinge in her chest. She would always be nothing, she realizes, not just to herself, but everyone else as well.
It was a lonely thought, but she swallows it away.
“I’m open to whatever you want to try,” she gives him the control, for now. She would let him paint what he wanted, would let him fill her with whatever he saw fit. She cannot even begin to discern what she might wish it to be, because she is sure that anything must be better than a constant state of apathy.
@[Tiercel]