Her hair falls smoothly over her shoulder. Her features are arranged carefully into an impassive, almost icy façade. You can feel the undercurrent of heartbreak, the crackle of pain that sears invisibly into her surroundings. Her eyes don’t see anything in front of her. Inwardly, she sees only a boy with dark hair, holding her heart carelessly under a knife.
She panics. The tears threaten her, they taunt her with the relief she knows they will bring her. Imperceptibly, there is a shift in her posture. Taller. Straighter. You can almost hear the locks clicking shut, against the crying, against the breakdown.
Marisol swallows the spiky lump in her throat. Her eyes are dry as she blinks twice. The pounding of blood in her ears is deafening. She wonders if anyone else can hear it.