Things are not supposed to be like this, she would lament once; it goes against the natural order. Against all logic.

She is Littorio. She is supposed to be the one people lay their eyes upon, to be enchanted by her beauty.

Yet, now she'd always relish the opportunity to see that person—even if she must deign herself to do it from afar.

She is Littorio. When she speaks, people stop and listen.

Yet now, when that person speaks, she finds herself stopping to listen.

She is Littorio. All roads lead to her.

Yet now, she would take any path if it led to that person just so they could meet.

She is Littorio. The world yearns for her light, but alas, there's only one her.

Yet now she knows she would give it to that person first.

There are two kinds of people in this world, she'd always say. Herself, and those who aren't her.

Among them is that person—and now such thoughts would elate her, for a wholly different reason.

She is Littorio. Adoration is to be received, rarely given.

Yet now, she would freely give hers to that person.

She is Littorio. She is not supposed to do all that. They are beneath her.

Yet beyond reason, she did.

But such is amore, she then realized—the storied, celebrated, unfathomable, maddening, tormentous emotion.

She is Littorio. She has never loved before.

Now she would.