isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
There is a strange quirk of her lips when he turns to look at her. Strange, because the smile is more expressive than what she usually gives. For once, something seems to reach her eyes – those astonishingly purple eyes, darker than amaranthine – but it does not soften them, the way smiles usually do. Instead it seems to shed light to what endless chasms they are, like when sunlight tries to swim to the bottom of the ocean, only to be swallowed by darkness.
But for all that emptiness, there is no malice. Just as she cannot find kindness or happiness, there is no anger or hostility either.
She just is; she exists. She exists like the sun and the moon, she exists like the river that flows and the flowers that bloom, but there are days that she would argue they feel more than she ever has.
They meet each other almost half way, and she calls back the threads of starlight, letting them fade into the night. “I don’t know if I belong anywhere,” she answers him truthfully, but the words lack the depth that emotion would have brought. No sorrow, no regret, no hopefulness. Just a statement. She steps closer to him, the captive star locked away inside of her (not just inside of her heart, but her entire being – in her bones, in her blood, in her breath) continuing to hum in a quiet sort of excitement, but she cannot fully recognize it. “Home?” She asks, with an almost quizzical tilt of her delicate head, wondering again at how so many seem to be able to see what she is, when she herself cannot. Everyone seems to know how to fix her, and she was still trying to understand all the ways she was broken. “I don’t know where home is.”
“My name is Islas,” she offers him, because it is one of the few things she can tell anyone about herself with absolute certainty.
@[Ten]