She was once a cliché.
The kind of girl to spend lunch reading, to pretend she missed a greeting, to hunch forward in the hopes of being overlooked. Daily she idled in her room, alone, wandering, bored. She kept secrets about her family, her feelings and particularities, about laughing herself to sleep at night – every night.
She kept herself well groomed but carefully unattractive: It was better that way. Safer. Her skin was blotchy, yet smooth; her hair clean, soft, yet misshapen and frizzy.
She was a wallflower.
It was her choice.
Her choice not to change her own nature. Given the choice between outwardness and its side affects and what she had – between what she saw every day away from herself and what the knew – there was no choice. She would take what was easiest. That simple.
Her habits were solid, which was good. She needed them. She woke early, did what work was necessary for the day, read or roamed or otherwise entertained herself, and retired early as well. She kept a constant narration in her head, a running dialogue with her subconscious. She liked to think. She was turned completely inward and was pleased with herself, with her life.
But all of that was about to change.