She wants to be happy.
She can't understand just what happy is; she's never felt it, never been fully immersed in pleasure so that a smile drifts across her face like white clouds across a plain sky. She knows that people in the books she has are happy, and that's when they smile, so happy must be good. She also knows that they 'love' each other. She wants to know love, too.
She sits in wait for someone who can give her these things. She doesn't realize that's not how it works, that you can't just make someone love you and appearances aren't everything. She's new to all this, and she's so cold and lonely and she just needs a friend.
She learned how to cry before she learned to laugh.
Being lonely is a feeling she knows so well, and it hurts it hurts it hurts, it hurts so much. They're all so happy in the outside world, she thinks, with friends and families and pets and lives.
She really hasn't lived.
Oh, she lives in the sense that she walks and talks and cries and feels, but she hasn't felt so much, seen so much, felt the touch of another warm body. The only things she's ever felt are the smooth cloth of the dolls, the hard stone of the mannequins and the oily texture of the Ladies. There's nothing human here for her, nothing but a circle of loneliness and longing.
She sits and waits, watching them all pass by in a world that her mind has warped into perfection with too long spent hoping. Her world is one of paper flowers and silly toys, crayon drawings and days spent with not a care in her mind but that of escaping. The real world is so much different but she likes to pretend that she has a life there and that she knows what it's like.
It is a perfect world out there, she thinks, and they're all so much luckier than her.