Fluffy floated lower, landing beside her on the moss. "I know."
"I just wanted to live." Her voice cracked. "I just… wanted to be normal. Play with Snugglewuff. Learn how to braid my own hair. Figure out how to walk in those ridiculous cute shoes. Not fight fate with glowing runes and soul-linked seashells!"
Fluffy's ears flattened. "You're allowed to be angry, princess."
"I'm seven, Fluffy. I'm seven and I'm carrying a prophecy like it's a lunchbox."
"That… might be the best metaphor for trauma I've ever heard," he murmured.
She let out a bitter laugh. It didn't last.
The silence crept in again.
"You're not alone," Fluffy said, very quietly. "I don't say this often… like, ever… but I've seen how others handle situations. None of them—none—have handled it like you."
"I'm not handling anything," she mumbled. "I'm spiraling."
