She is free with her kisses and free with her words-
(I love you, I love you, I-)
-but her heart hides behind the bruises that slide from limb to limb beneath her skin. She dreams vividly. She blurs the line between what's real and what's in her head, and sometimes she'll feel the repercussions, good and bad, long after she wakes. He's noticed what the dreaming often does to her, and only once has he asked if she was alright afterwards; she's not sure whether to be thankful or nervous that Arthur knows to let her decide when enough is enough.
(It does not do to dwell in dreams)
She wonders sometimes if he's something of her own creation, spun out of nothing from the middle of the maze, and her heart will race and her fingers will drop to the chesspiece in her pocket and only half the time is she placated by it. The other half fears she'll wake up.
(Hey. Hey, hey, look at me, you're okay. You're okay.)
The days feel so much like falling, like the bottom's dropped out of her stomach and her heart's all lodged up in her throat, and a part of her is afraid to wonder what would happen in her dreams if she gets too used to feeling the kick while conscious.