perfect. ‎ ‎what an undying mockery dressed as a compliment. a word of responsibility, of weight, of standard—you should be this, you should be that. you couldn't be this, you couldn't be that — it's a single word but it made you feel so oblige to be one. stand as one, breathe as one, and blink as one— one said, no, i don't want to be perfect, i am happy as i am—no, that's a lie. if that's true, then the kingdom won't be like this, those lords won't be like that, those women won't be like that, and she won't be like this. ‎ ‎she wants to be perfect. she wants to be beautiful. far more beautiful than agnes. but that would be impossible. but elvira, being herself, tried. tried and tried—and let's say she became beautiful. she is. oh, she is. but she didn't know if she really is, if her efforts to woo the prince go in vain or is it already in vain—it's like she made flowers grow in her lungs, and although she is beautiful, she could not breathe. she could but it felt like it's not her. ‎ ‎no one ever told her that grief felt much like fear. she is afraid, but the fluttering inside her— that same restlessness she keep on swallowing. it won't go away. it won't leave her be. why can't the prince love her? why can't he look at her? love her? forget agnes? choose her? she did everything, so why? is it not enough? is she not enough? ‎ ‎standing there, her chest high and proud as any lady, blue eyes brimming with the glassy sting of unseen heartbreak, pastel silks whispers at her ankles—a trembling, woeful breath slips from her parted pale red lips as her head bows, her gaze falls to the floor. ‎ ‎then, quietly, a shadow spills over hers—soft, deliberate. a hand emerges into her view, extended gently, reverently.

an invitation.

a question asked without a word. ‎ ‎from you.