Newt Imagines

Her. (P4)

I follow Y/N silently into her hut, conscientious in every slight movement I make. I feel that if I slip up, take one wrong step that makes the floorboards creak below me or knock one of the loose pens across the floor, that she'll rush me straight back out the door. I hold my breath, not wanting to sound unsteady in the deafening silence that engulfs us, and calculate the distance between us as I walk behind her, careful not to stand too close in fear of making her uncomfortable, or too far in case I somehow lose her.

For the first time since arriving here, I witness the interior of her house, and it is as different as possible from what I had imagined.

For a girl so royal as Y/N, with such incredible strength, intelligence, and poise; I had naturally expected something to match. Where I had imagined a lush carpet lays only dusty floorboards, and instead of a four-poster bed, a rickety wooden one stands in its place; looking as though it might give way at any moment. A simple study desk sits in one corner opposite the bed, neatly holding a closed journal and three pens, tucked tightly in a row. Around the floor, scrunched up balls of paper and discarded pens are strewn, the trash can itself overflowing with forgotten sketches and used-up ink. In the other corner, she has thrown a pile of spare pillows and bedding, barely folded. The mess is a stark contrast to the careful organisation of her desktop, and I imagine that's all she really touches.

The room itself is evidently underwhelming, leaving all the attention on the girl inside it.

Y/N barely looks at me as she slumps down onto the bed, its worn wooden structure creaking under her weight. She doesn't say a word, and hardly a sound leaves her mouth; I'm afraid to even breathe into the silence. Her eyes remain fixed on her hands, clasped together tightly in her lap. She barely moves, and I wonder if I'd imagined all the sniffles and sobs through the door, the same way I'd imagined her luxurious home. Is she simply a vessel for my imagination? Am I creating a character that I can sympathise with?

Upon further study of her rigid stature, I regretfully find I had been right all along. She is silent and still, as if she is trying to become simply part of the building, an inanimate object like the furniture that adorns the room. But as good as she is at hiding her pain, she can't stop the tears. With her eyes scrunched shut now, they roll down her cheeks like waterfalls, endless in their creation. The worst thing of all, is the strength she puts in to faking comfort. Looking closely, I can see she isn't even breathing; her chest still as a rock as she holds it in to prevent it from breaking her steady silence.

Before I even realise it, I find myself sinking onto the mattress next to her, my lanky arms engulfing her and pulling her against my chest. I want to shield her from everything, have any pain-inflicting incident hit my body before it reaches hers. The instant her head touches my shirt, her defensive walls shatter, crumbling into a messy heap of sobs and tears.

I don't know how long we sit like that; my fingers in her hair as her sobs inspire an uncomfortable lump in my own throat. I lose any sense of time into the rhythm of the wind shuffling through the trees outside, and hardly notice when her cries descend into an occasional tremble.

"I'm not crazy," Y/N mumbles eventually, her bizarrely blunt statement snapping me back to reality.

"What?" Is all I manage to reply, still trying to process her words. Of course she isn't crazy, she's just as lost as the rest of us, with no one to support her.

"I'm not crazy." She repeats, sitting up a little from her place on my chest, her damp cheeks sticking to my shirt a little. "You must all think I'm completely mad... I'm not. I promise."

"I know you're not." I nod, meeting her eyes. I try my best to read them, searching for whatever it is that she isn't saying. I'm not sure where her sudden candour has come from; whether me seeing her at her most vulnerable has finally allowed her to open up to me, or if she has simply exhausted herself beyond the ability to fight it. Either way, I dare not to mention it.