i sat with my anger long enough she told me her real name was grief
It presses in like so many shadows, drilling against the careful defenses she's built against such an attack. Anxiety, fear, panic, sorrow - and happiness, and guilt for being happy, and a helpless, childlike confusion underneath it all. All of these play prismatic just below the surface of Amalia's skin, threatening to tear her into like shards of whetted luminescence as the threads that hold her psyche together grow evermore taut and frayed. Wound as she is it can be no surprise that she starts at the sound of another voice, flinching visibly as she whirls to face whoever has intruded on her sanctum.
She's not quite crying as she turns around - indeed, once the initial surprise wears off what's left is a sort of sanguine stillness, punctuated by a thin and trembling smile that does not reach her eyes. "Oh. Finn," the girl says dumbly, as though he needed to be reminded of his own name. A brittle laugh leaves her; she reaches up to run her hand through her hair, back now to the marble wall, barely able to hold her own weight. He must have seen her flee the meeting - they all must have - and gods, what a fool she must seem to them now. "Not... not especially, no. Um. You?"
She's not quite crying as she turns around - indeed, once the initial surprise wears off what's left is a sort of sanguine stillness, punctuated by a thin and trembling smile that does not reach her eyes. "Oh. Finn," the girl says dumbly, as though he needed to be reminded of his own name. A brittle laugh leaves her; she reaches up to run her hand through her hair, back now to the marble wall, barely able to hold her own weight. He must have seen her flee the meeting - they all must have - and gods, what a fool she must seem to them now. "Not... not especially, no. Um. You?"
Amalia
