That afternoon, Erian started writing poetry.
She used to write poetry all the time. It used to be her hobby. But she'd run out of time to write, after that awful night when she was fifteen . . . when . . .
Don't think about it. Focus on your verse.
The poetry came better when Erian didn't think about it. Of course, that might have been because of where she was writing.
Erian looked up and smiled as another quinjet roared past, launching off the flight deck into the blue unknown. The wind whipped her hair around her face and threatened to steal the pages she wrote. Flight crews were calling orders and the sun was bright in Erian's eyes.
She wouldn't have it any other way. This was the best place for Erian to relax, and she didn't bother to think about why. It was bright and loud and chaotic, and not at all relaxing.
Which was probably why she loved it so much.
Erian smiled a little as she wrote. There was a sort of dreaminess in her head that she couldn't explain, and she felt compelled to write it all down. But to write it down wasn't enough – it had to be perfect. To express everything she felt that made her unable to keep the smile off her face.
Erian felt as if she could step off the edge of the helicarrier and fly. Not that she was going to try it, but still. It was a nice feeling.
And she was taking great care to avoid examining the origins of that feeling. Erian finished her poem, carefully adding a final flourish with her pen, and stared down at the paper for a moment.
What are you, a teenager? Get a grip, Erian!
She stood up and threw the entire dozen pages of poetry off the edge of the flight deck. The wind caught the papers and carried them toward the distant clouds, black words dancing in the sky.
Erian smiled again, and went inside.