Re: Third Class ; Dining
In a way, the lost boy could understand the shame in her voice. He didn't know who he was, where he was from, that same loss of identity that she was experiencing, but likely for very different reasons. He craned his head to the side, looking at the wounds on her back, the bruising, the marks that indicated a loss of something, and for a long moment, he was very still and very quiet.
"Does it matter who you are?" he finally asked, head tilted slightly to the side as he looked upon her. "I don't know who I am either. I feel like I should be bothered by it, but perhaps there's a gift in not knowing." The lost boy paused for a moment, reaching up to chew on his thumb nail, thinking. "You can decide who you are. What you are. No one gets to tell you." And there was freedom in that, he was sure. How many people got to decide that without the world defining them and putting pressure upon them to be someone or something that they weren't.