"You mean she would rather imagine herself relating to an absent person than build relationships with those around her? " -Le Fabuleux destin d'Amelie Poulain
One month and she's counting. Another week and hours more. And she's still counting. In a crisp, white shirt with a pencil skirt, she stares at the mirror. Hard. So hard that her crystal eyes shatter, leaving two black, bottomless pits. So hard that she turns to stone, in lifeless black and white, shunning any possible tinge of life.
On the day of her arrival, she stared hard at the papers she was holding, the formalities she bowed herself to, and wondered, "if this is what I want?". She places her fallen eyelash on her finger, makes a wish for a day and blows it to the unseen.
People are people. They may be social animals of verbal playfulness, but they are definitely not the most merciful of judges. And she is in a field where vocal is crucial. Hard. She stares hard at the mirror again. But there is no more reflection of her. Only the opaque glass cube which she lets herself in.
16 minutes ago