kalat.

Empty is a good way to describe it. 

It’s not the right word; but it catches the general feeling.

Sorella is empty. 

She picks at the cracks in her willpower despite her misgivings about its solidarity. 

A part of her wants it to unravel, dares it to.

It won’t. 

Will it?

From across the room, Orphan thinks snide remarks about her (lack of) sanity at her. 

She tunes him out, and thinks about nothing instead.

Catching sight of Orphan’s confused, annoyed expression, she can’t help but burst out laughing.

Befuddling him is one of her few joys.

Few.

She sighs at the word, and goes back to picking.