She was the sort of girl who wore her pain like a mask. Concealing every flicker of hope that could show, in case the demons that lurked in corners snatched that hope away and gobbled it up into their ever-hungry bellies. She was the girl who saw constellations in the faces of those she loved most but black holes in her own irises, and the all too familiar fear that was like a second shadow to her, cloaking her and making her see cities burn in her dreams and worlds die at her feet. She was the storm and the calm, broken and whole. She was all and nothing at once, and when that was too much pressure she became the whirlpool of pain she had always kept leashed. This girl collapsed in on herself and the world held its breath until she resurfaced.
It is still holding its breath.