[ And there's almost a reply, too: words she's turned over, again and again, trying to mould them into — something, anything. The cut wires between her brain and her vocal cords have infected her fingers, her texts, with the same malignancy. The same feebleness, like a coating of static. Mute, muter.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Yes, he'll be there. Feels right, somehow, that she's not alone for it. ]
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In the end, she leaves it there. ]