He had never seen a girl like her. A girl who had somehow stepped into this world completely unmarred. A girl who seemed like fresh dough, malleable. A girl with newborn skin, shaped and stung and changed by everyone and everything around her.
She soaked herself in her experiences and wore other people's words like a cowl. His skin, on the other hand, was dark and muddy and dirtied and scratched - a hard, solid core that blocked everything else out. But not her. Not her because she was like water, and she bubbled and swayed and slipped through the cracks and burned his fresh skin like acid. She washed away his dirt, and took it on instead.
Yes, she was like water. Still lying, barely flowing. Lukewarm. She passed through each and every person and cleaned them. She babbled like a baby, but made her simple words cut through like a wail. And everyone wanted to drink from her. Steal from her. Guzzle up her words and liquid eyes and tiny smiles, drink until she filled them to bursting, drink until there was nothing left.
Yet as more and more drank. As she passed over them time and time again. As all their dirt spilled unto her. She became soiled. Stagnant. Ruined.
But he would not let her become such a sad story.