… who hides herself under layers and layers of clothing, with a pretty face that is always covered with a curtain of dark hair. It is not hard to see that she is not quite like the others: always with a sullen look, always with an apologetic air.
She has the undeniable talent of stringing words in an endless loop of conversation, confusion, and frustration. To be brief, therefore, is not her gift; but she is blessed with artistic hands that step in when words prove futile.
In her I see a tortured soul, unsure of her place in this world. She always invokes a sadness in me.
And in that shared melancholy, I realize – she is not so strange after all.