It's not that hard to see, but no one looks
(disclaimer: I borrowed from J.K.Rowling, stole from my imagination and have to live with the fact that this will never happen. Fictionalities work like that.)
The young boy in the corner shows no emotion. He is trained, practised, and perfected.
He is cold.
But at night, he hides in his room. At night, he feels. For him, emotions are forbidden, giggles and tremors are a luxury he cannot afford to indulge in. Feelings are a polished stone on his dressor, that he's not allowed to touch. But at night, he picks it up and cradles it in his hands and cries, giggles, shakes, and dirties it. He sits in the corner holding it tightly to his chest, keeping it hidden from the world.
He is in this same position when he wakes up, but, like all other days, he cleans it, and replaces it on the counter. His personality detached, mannerisms formal, emotions cut off. He just waits for the day that someone sees the fingerprints, waits until someone sees the tears.
(disclaimer: I borrowed from J.K.Rowling, stole from my imagination and have to live with the fact that this will never happen. Fictionalities work like that.)
The young boy in the corner shows no emotion. He is trained, practised, and perfected.
He is cold.
But at night, he hides in his room. At night, he feels. For him, emotions are forbidden, giggles and tremors are a luxury he cannot afford to indulge in. Feelings are a polished stone on his dressor, that he's not allowed to touch. But at night, he picks it up and cradles it in his hands and cries, giggles, shakes, and dirties it. He sits in the corner holding it tightly to his chest, keeping it hidden from the world.
He is in this same position when he wakes up, but, like all other days, he cleans it, and replaces it on the counter. His personality detached, mannerisms formal, emotions cut off. He just waits for the day that someone sees the fingerprints, waits until someone sees the tears.