She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s missing something.
An arch with no keystone, a clock with no tick. She lacks something vital, something that others seem to instinctively grasp.
She shuffles through her memories and fumbles with clumsy emotions, roots through musty boxes of thought and lets each dull idea tumble back through her fingers. Nothing. No hint of her loss, just the heavy tread of time slipping past.
Maybe it’s the void itself that sets her apart. What others fill with drama and confusion she simply leaves blank.
But it isn’t a true blank. It’s the emptiness of a barren womb. A hidden place designed to carry good things—life, love—it goes on empty, until sly bitterness sneaks in to fill the wanting.
She casts about for something harmless to feed it with—to stave off the anger, to tide over the pain, until the real deal comes along. But she gives up, knowing there is no truly harmless thing to fill it. To place anything there that wasn’t meant for it will be a poison to her.
So she waits, numbs herself to the ache, and hopes for the best.