Whimsy and serenity, devotion and grace, she is eternally calm and silent. She twirls and curtsies in the breeze, beckoning all into her radiant embrace. She adores love in all its forms, longs for someone to see her fully. Over and over, she reads Greek classics and tragedies, reads poems by Sappho, reads Jane Austen’s pride and prejudice. She reads and reads in the hopes to lose herself in an alternate dimension, where maybe the hole isn’t as gaping and severe. Where maybe sanctuary is present in numbness.

Her affinity for peace is not an indication of softness. She has been uprooted and forced to change for her own survival. She has seen her name, once a beacon of acceptance and love, twisted into hate and despair. Tearing at her imperfections, her reminders of how she failed herself and everyone who put faith in her, she shakes and bends. A facade of purity and a ghost of anything real. Desperation seeps into all she does, a silent cry for care, for some part of her to not be plastic yet remain lovable.

All she wants, all she ever wanted, was the intimacy of compassion. She longs for closeness and in this act discovers how torturous desire is. Passion tries to forge itself into selfishness and greed. She refuses to tempt this horrid transformation, compels herself to become the light, carefree mask that is her fame. She would rather compress and lock up her hurt than let anyone else experience it. No one should have to experience pain simply because someone else managed to endure it. It shouldn’t be a monetary value of character.

At least, that’s what Lavender believes. She hopes that, surely, even the brokenhearted have room for love.