a construct
Pure white paper, unmarred, unmarked. Perfect. She drags the crayon across it. Slow, deliberate, but gentle, like a mother stroking the face of her child. And maybe she is like that, a mother, creating this precious work all her own, constructing it from nothing with her own two hands.
So like a mother, she thinks it perfect, the soft, simple markings in her notebook. Even if they aren't her will, even if she wants to apologize. She draws and she draws and she draws until her hands ache and her fingers shake.
But she shakes for many reasons. Not only out of tiredness, but in fear. Sometimes she thinks I am like this drawing myself, aren't I? A construct, a false being. Silly thoughts, useless thoughts, but they make her frown and press her crayon harder on the paper, until it digs through and leaves marks on the page underneath.
Even if it's true, she is herself and no one else. A fake person, maybe. Not whole, maybe. But Naminé is Naminé, and that is what matters.