numinous27
There was little justification for the way she felt. Or maybe there were decades of it. Layers and layers that had built up over the years until she couldn't breathe for all the accumulated dust of and build-up crusting her lungs. One day she reached in and scrubbed it all away and found there was nothing left but herself and she didn't know quite what to do with that.
Just herself was a weird way to be.
A strange way to feel, freeing and terrifying all at once.
She breathed into it and found that she hated it as much as she loved it. Was this prison? A life that she could see but not exactly live?