Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and whenever she thinks this she is reminded of Tolys, with his loosely tied hair and gently cracked knuckles. She isn't certain when she began to think so much of this boy with his fists full of contradictions and his chest full of far too many emotions, but somehow he stays put, a fissure in her frozen mask that she can never quite smooth over.
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and Tolys worries his rough hands could damage her, could somehow chip away the delicate features that entrance him so. She thinks he forgets, sometimes, that ice is enduring, and his hesitant touch is barely noticeable for something that could last millennia.
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and she wants Tolys to take her in his arms and melt away the fearful pride from her face. She thinks he forgets, sometimes, that she is still a person, not a statue on a pedestal to be polished and locked away.
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and when she hears Tolys say so she can feel a million tiny butterflies tumbling through her ribcage like a blizzard. She isn't sure if she likes it, but she can't quite explain why the loss of control frightens her so.
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and some days this pleases her, because she loves to watch the frozen rainbows within trapped in their immortal dance, loves the chill when it bites against even her own fingers and reminds her of all she could be. Other days it scares her, and she wonders when she became so hollow, when there became space for rainbows and icicles where should be a heart to beat and lungs to speak
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and like an ice sculpture she's already fading. Each moment is a new beginning, every second a tiny death, and though the change is imperceptible to most, she can feel it in the soles of her feet like so many fractured icicles, and while she's so young, so old, barely an adult and as old as the hills, she's scared of what will happen when the ice starts to melt.
Nataliya is beautiful, like an ice sculpture, and like an ice sculpture, those words mean nothing to her. She wishes she could know if Tolys would still love her if the sculpture shattered into a million fragments and he saw her as she is, weak and fragile and human, but she has no real way of knowing without first allowing herself to fall.