11.15 sat, 9:38
There is a girl, cross-legged on the floor. Her eyes flicker between the terror of open, loving faces and the safety of the walls and the floor and her too-tight pants. Her fingers tap in quick succession on the rough carpet, but they falter and miss beats. Her stomach pushes upwards and her wrists are shaking as she tries to speak. As everyone else converses and breathes normally, she can feel her throat wobbling and it won’t stop. Even with the door closed and the kindest people sitting beside her, she feels like a liar. She feels like a coward, because they’ve all faced the multi-faceted demon head on, and she’s done nothing but run away. Her voice cracks, because she’s not saying what she wants to and because she doesn’t know if she can. Her fingers hide beneath the hem of her shirt and she thinks that she’s insane because saying it should be the smallest thing in the world. But she’s so afraid of being isolated, even though she knows she’s normal, even though she knows other people have had it much worse. When she finally says it, her voice tips and trembles and her fists are so much weaker than she had wanted.