Bearclaw Valley wildflower

her mouth went dry. she felt the briefest touch of winslet’s shoulder against her own, and her nerves sparked. her instinct was to recoil—to shrink back or spit out some offhand joke to kill the conversation where it stood. no such luck.

why is that? god, why’d they always have to ask? what about her screamed give me a therapy session that everyone felt so inclined.

it wasn’t like she had an answer. or maybe she did, but it was too ugly, too tangled, too much to say out loud. how did she explain the constant gnaw of inadequacy, the way she couldn’t stand her own skin sometimes, the way she watched everyone else move through life with ease while she sat paralyzed behind glass? how did she explain that she felt like a rusted hinge, something that creaked and stuck and failed to work the way it was meant to?

her throat bobbed, and she swallowed down the first answer that tried to crawl out. instead, she huffed a small, bitter laugh. “y’sound like ameline,” she muttered. a joke, something to make her back off, but she could still feel the weight of winslet’s attention on her. she was waiting. she wished someone would come and kill her now—anything to escape this interrogation.

she shrugs. “just easier. not expecting much from myself. that way it doesn’t feel so bad when i mess it up. can’t get disappointed if i never get my hopes up.” it was a lie. it was still very disappointing no matter what she did.

a harsh snort. she was walking now, keeping pace with winslet. her tail twitched behind her in restless agitation. “not much point to expecting more than what i can offer.”