DESPOINA
Sometimes, she wonders how she does not drown in the depth of her pain.
It is the only constant in her life—the only thing that she has always known would be there with her. It haunts her steps, trails her every move. She feels it lurking around the corners and beneath her skin until she is lit on fire with it, alive with the nerve ending that rage and spin in rapid fire. She wonders if her mother ever thinks of her. If she knows the way that she has set her on this life of sorrow. If her mother knows that she still dreams of the iridescent blue of her blaze, of the darkness of her silvery eyes when she could barely look at her—of the silence as she was walked to the den to be abandoned.
She does. She always will, she thinks. Her dreams are alive with the pain in a way that few understand and although there is something about Draco that keeps her gravitating around him, she wonders if he is able to fully understand either. Does he know the way that her soul fractures? Does he understand the way that she will never be fully whole? She is just a shell of a girl, the pieces without the entirety.
Today, she breaks from Pangea to walk on her own. She doubts that he will notice because she doubts that he cares when she is around. Instead, she slips into the shadows, loathing the way that her body reflects the light back at those near enough to see. She has no business being this bright, being this noticeable. In a way, it makes her crave the darkness of her other form, but she cannot bring herself to slip into it tonight. That body does not belong to her either. She has no claim to the strength of it, the darkness in it.
She is an orphan that does not fit in either home.
It is only when she catches the movement of his shadows that her thoughts fracture and her forward motion stops. She jerks her petite head up, black eyes peering into the shadows and catching the outline of where the shadows become more whole. Where they become something tangible and real.
Then she notices the eyes.
Her breath catches in her throat and she bites her lip.
She considers running, considers shifting, considers doing anything, but instead she does nothing.
She just stands and stares back.
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do