She lives with the most miserable woman on earth; the kind that’s not miserable due to suffering, but dissatisfaction. And because of that, nothing she does is good enough or fast enough for her, and the woman’s misery drags her down with hooked fingers on her tattered dress.
She only has her tears for company; the only kind of friends that make her feel more lonely than she already is. But they’re the kind of friends that, when enough of them are gathered, are able to summon something beautiful, and tip the scales that once weighed against her.
For now, she continues to cry, oblivious to the clouds of vapour that begin to rise from the puddle of misery.