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Lavender hated the monotony.
Hated the predictability.
Hated the way everyone knew their place, the way they all fit in their neatly defined roles, the way none of them ever really questioned it.
Lark was too real, too colorful, too standoffish-constantly smiling, constantly throwing jokes around, constantly making everything lighter than it actually was. Like he did not know what it was like to be suffocated by silence.
Beatrice was too organized, too controlled-always defined where she was, precisely how far she could go, exactly what was dependence and independence. As if she'd never gotten lost in her life.
Saffy was too wild, too unencumbered-trading words like explosives, sweeping the consequences under the rug, treating everything like a game. As if nothing ever meant enough to be worth noticing.
Voko was too distant, too inaccessible, too rapid-fire with wit that Lavender could never hope to match.
She resented that most of all.
Because he was the only one she wished she could meet.
Because he was the only one who was always just out of reach.
Because he was the only one who could gaze at her and make her feel like she was something, even if he never realized it.
Her pen pressed harder against the page.
Then-she wrote.
Something deliberate.
Something slicing.
Something she wasn't sure she'd ever allow them to read.
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