It's different now, just as it was different twenty years ago. Nico Robin stopped feeling when she was eight. Pangs of hunger often faded with time, and so did the pain. She learned to swallow her feelings behind eloquent words, and crafted herself into the perfect porcelain doll, completely devoid of all emotion.
The Straw Hat Pirates taught her how to feel again.
There are times that Robin wishes she could forget. If she had no memories, she could be normal, just like everyone else. Even as a child, her intelligence was constantly praised. "A prodigy," they'd proclaim, and her lips would tug into that painfully polite smile of hers and she would coyly clasp her hands together behind her back. No one could understand the reasons why she'd rather be ordinary than be herself.
A long time ago, smiles came easier. "I love history," she'd proclaim, and she'd spin, hugging a book close to her chest. Her father would curl his big, burly arms around her slender frame and whisk her off to bed, no matter what the protest.
"I need to write my report," she would claim in her most adult voice, an excuse she conjured when she discovered her mother spent late nights scribing her findings into endless notebooks. Her father would just guffaw and tuck her in and Robin would return his laugh with her most childish pout until his whiskers tickled her face with goodnight kisses.
It was not always good to feel.
