[ There is nothing that releases in her at this. The opposite, in fact; she turns and curls, knees pulling towards her chest as the wretched thing that made its home in her hears its name and wakes to stretch its claws and whisper expendable to her as it turns to its work of weaving the threads spun from her amorphous fear into something real and solid. ​]

But you would love her still, unerringly. And with enough time she would trust it just enough to let you love her, and if she would have you you would go.

[ It's tight, unhappy. ]

And because she would be fearful and suspicious, so recently trusting, she would need the whole of your attention, and you would give it.

[ It is a picture of herself in part, although she can't connect it. He is new to her, she is afraid of trusting because no-one ever stays. It doesn't matter that this woman isn't here, because the thing that makes her truth is saying

See, already lost. ]

I would not blame you.

[ Looks like yours, but see? Remember? Not yours. ]