[Deconstructed, there's nothing about the box that really bothers her, she finds. The paper is just paper. The box is just a box. In and of itself, none of these things strike that sudden jolt of panic that left her frozen a moment ago, and it feels a little like seeing a haunted house with all the lights turned on, all the workings exposed in such a way that there's no room to find any part of it frightening to begin with.
She breathes, in and out. The sweets are brightly-colored and pretty. A perfectly thoughtful gift from a fake boyfriend fixated on doing things correctly. He probably made sure the molds were properly dried before any of the chocolate poured in.
There was nothing terrible inside the boxes. But it was never really about the boxes to begin with, was it? It was all about that memory, that moment when she'd first stepped into the hidden room and seen the merry cheerful gift waiting for her on the table and known with a stab of horror what it was. That it was for her, because no one else would've wound up there to look.
She blinks, and all of a sudden all she sees is smudges of runny color. Something crawls slowly down her cheek and falls off somewhere in the vicinity of her chin.
She feels like a bottle with the contents shaken up to the point of bursting. Funny — she's Bottle-chan again. How appropriate, in such a completely different way than it'd originally been. Bottle-chan with her feelings all bottled up inside, forced down and shaken up and with only the cork in her fighting to hold it all back.]
Ah —
[She isn't expecting the laugh that bubbles out of her mouth. She isn't expecting the first burst of it to draw out a second one like a magician drawing endless handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. She isn't expecting to have to put her face down into her hands while she laughs at herself, at the stupid stupid chocolates, at the dumb nickname, at everything, and after a while the giggling turns wet and the breath she draws in turns to gasps and something all just comes spilling out of her, noise, all the cacophony of sounds she's never made and hasn't made in what feels like years, until her shoulders are shaking and her throat feels thick and she'll get control of herself soon, in just a minute.
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She breathes, in and out. The sweets are brightly-colored and pretty. A perfectly thoughtful gift from a fake boyfriend fixated on doing things correctly. He probably made sure the molds were properly dried before any of the chocolate poured in.
There was nothing terrible inside the boxes. But it was never really about the boxes to begin with, was it? It was all about that memory, that moment when she'd first stepped into the hidden room and seen the merry cheerful gift waiting for her on the table and known with a stab of horror what it was. That it was for her, because no one else would've wound up there to look.
She blinks, and all of a sudden all she sees is smudges of runny color. Something crawls slowly down her cheek and falls off somewhere in the vicinity of her chin.
She feels like a bottle with the contents shaken up to the point of bursting. Funny — she's Bottle-chan again. How appropriate, in such a completely different way than it'd originally been. Bottle-chan with her feelings all bottled up inside, forced down and shaken up and with only the cork in her fighting to hold it all back.]
Ah —
[She isn't expecting the laugh that bubbles out of her mouth. She isn't expecting the first burst of it to draw out a second one like a magician drawing endless handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. She isn't expecting to have to put her face down into her hands while she laughs at herself, at the stupid stupid chocolates, at the dumb nickname, at everything, and after a while the giggling turns wet and the breath she draws in turns to gasps and something all just comes spilling out of her, noise, all the cacophony of sounds she's never made and hasn't made in what feels like years, until her shoulders are shaking and her throat feels thick and she'll get control of herself soon, in just a minute.
Just a minute.]