[ It seems to distress her more the closer he gets, and yet she continues to hold her tongue. The signs are in her posture, in how close her shoulders have hunched toward her chin, in how her weight shifts like she might even inch away if she has to. The illusion around her statics briefly, flickers rolling in a wave that leaves the ground directly under her subtly different. (The grass is gone.) When he stops is when she finally comes to some sort of equilibrium with her anxiousness, and she doesn't relax, exactly, just stops growing more vexed. He says he'll be careful, but-- his idea of careful and hers are clearly very different things. ]
[ And then he asks what she was hoping he wouldn't - what she knows he has a right to understand. Her face crumples, as though some vain hope has been crushed. This time she doesn't turn away, but for just a moment she allows herself to squeeze her eyes shut, lets herself not tell him, lets herself pretend not to be who she is for one more instant. Then, very quietly, she says, ]
It's me.
[ 'It's always been me,' she doesn't say. Because this has always been what she was, what she could do. The only difference now is that she isn't in control of it anymore. ]
no subject
[ And then he asks what she was hoping he wouldn't - what she knows he has a right to understand. Her face crumples, as though some vain hope has been crushed. This time she doesn't turn away, but for just a moment she allows herself to squeeze her eyes shut, lets herself not tell him, lets herself pretend not to be who she is for one more instant. Then, very quietly, she says, ]
It's me.
[ 'It's always been me,' she doesn't say. Because this has always been what she was, what she could do. The only difference now is that she isn't in control of it anymore. ]
Whatever they've done - it's effecting me, too.