❝𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚.❞
Selfishly fascinated with her own strength, Valen Ferreira is willing to do nearly anything and everyth...
OF COURSE EVERYONE FORGETS TO CLEAN THE WINDOWSILL.
Valen diligently scrubbed away at the wooden windowsill, intent on eradicating the stubborn layer of dust that'd hardened on the wood. Her law clenched as the dust gradually transferred onto the once-pristine cleaning rag she'd gleaned from a decrepit cupboard in the barracks' cellar. She scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed until her knuckles ached and her rag was dark and filthy; the dust, though, was not the only thing Valen was scrubbing away.
Levi.
His harsh, but fatigued expression in the candlelight reentered her mind, and Valen swore she was experiencing everything again— her insides twisting in on themselves, the warmness creeping up her neck... She'd flipped in bed for hours, burying her face in her pillow, debating whether she'd confided too much. The day he'd come to the barracks, she'd sworn she'd defend the distance she'd created between her and Levi— but in under a day, she was already losing control of where her once-rigid boundaries resided. Her control was slipping from her grasp, and she had not the slightest of what to do, how to counter him.
Valen was unsure how much longer so she could sustain this.
For a couple of seconds, the sun disappeared behind a wall of clouds, reappearing again when the wind had carried them westward. Valen finished scrubbing the windowsill and chucked the cloth aside— other things required her attention. She knelt beside her duffel bag, zipping it open and rummaging inside; she'd yet to wash the clothing she'd stained last night. Pulling the sack of soiled sleepwear from her bag, something else slid from inside the bag: an opened envelope with a card peeking from its torn edges. Valen was fully aware of what was inside— and how it made her feel. Though what she should have done was shove the envelope back in her bag, her hands acted on their own, and she plucked the envelope from the floor and pulled the card out of the envelope.
"Get well soon!" the card's cover read.
Valen winced— this card was delivered to her the second day of her stay in the Trost infirmary. A modest bouquet had been placed beside it. Opening the card, five names were scrawled across the paper, short, encouraging phrases accompanying them. Her throat tightened uncomfortably, and the card wavered back and forth in her hand. Petra, Oruo, Gunther, and Eld— that hadn't deserved what'd happened to them. As cold as they were when she'd first been reassigned, each and every single one of them had been amazingly talented individuals. They were good people, too: they'd gradually welcomed her into their tightly-knit circle of camaraderie, even when the circumstances surrounding her reassignment were murky. Valen stopped desiring acceptance from others a long time ago, but she wanted to believe that their concern was real; that the news of her injuries had disconcerted them, that they wished her a speedy recovery.
