Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Wren stared too long, regularly and uncomfortably so. She didn't have a good sense of how to be with people who weren't Luke, who weren't Evie. She was a disconcerting directness in slow syllables and a voice too husky for her insignificance, the woman with the cinnamon hair. Whether she thought or not, and the intricacies of what was happening behind her gray eyes was a thing not specified. In fact, it wasn't obvious that she was thinking anything at all, but she did look, and she looked at the girl beside her, youth that clung longer than normal. She thought of hotels, of demons, of magic, and she listened to words spoken of home.
She looked around the room, mirrors and wood, reflections and music, and she sought home between the walls. But this was no home for Wren, and home wasn't a place. Home was a person, flesh and blood and beating heart, and she maybe felt a little sorry for the dancing girl. In that moment, in that second, she felt a little sorry, and she just smiled sadness that didn't tip lips fully up at the corners.
"Maybe not. Maybe the words only exist for someone else." Dependent, simple, and she wasn't sure she existed, not really. Even there, in front of that mirror and reflected, was she only a thing because someone loved her? She thought maybe oui, maybe yes, and she shook her head at the concept of someone putting words on a page. "It's not like that. I'm not very good at saying things."
It was easier, better to think of the differences between ballet being better, versus the girl with the dark hair being better. That was easy, and she thought maybe the two could go hand in hand. "You don't want to forget where you come from? How can you? Isn't it here?" Fingers to her chest, and there was nothing that could take the girl in the white clapboard house from Wren, no way to tear it out and toss it upon the floor, no way to make it a thing she could stomp with her feet and stamp out like matches. Non, it made her, and there was no forgetting. "Does the dancing make you better?" That seemed important.
But then Wren's smile brightened, really and truly. "Luke reads me."