Igma;
The door opens before I'm ready for it.
Some part of me has spent every hour since I last saw her, building a version of her in my head. I wondered if and hoped she'd be… whole, untouched, scolding me for taking so long to come. But those versions don't prepare me for the girl standing in the doorway right now.
Alana. My Alana…
Her brown hair hangs limp, thin, and tangled at the ends. Like no one had the decency to help her come in…in months.
Her rabbit ears— usually pricked, alert, twitching at every sound in a room the way they always have since I've known her—sit pressed flat against her skull. Fear does that to her. Fear that I've only seen a handful of times.
Her skin has gone pale in a way that makes the shadows under her eyes look bruised into her. Her usually glowing… healthy skin…is almost ghostly pale now.
She's thinner too.
