[ His answer is nebulous, and also pangs something so deep and so strong in Mima that she can nearly see its outline in the air - freedom. Vague and formless, and yet drawn to as sharp a point as Mima can imagine.
She hasn't known freedom. Not truly. Certainly not for the duration of her adult life - curfews and rules imposed first by her mother and father, and then by her agency, the leash passed from one set of hands to another. But even if their circumstances don't totally align (can't, from the way this man carries himself,) she knows too well that hopeless, impotent yearning for control. The hard and occasional need to yank that leash away and run. She's been left alone with it and nothing else in her shoebox apartment for so many nights that the sting has started to dull. Plans made for rather than with her have begun to feel normal.
The spectators are starting to tuck their devices into their pockets and fall away, clicking their tongues in disappointment. They may have been for some time, as the situation imploded dully on itself - Mima hadn't noticed. Her gaze slides from him briefly, then back up, and she nods, nearly imperceptibly, in understanding.
He asks if she can walk - if she can move on from this by herself, she assumes, and Mima all at once remembers herself. She sends a furtive glance around before she straightens her knees, climbs to her feet. ]
I think so. [ Said quickly as she straightens herself, arranges her clothes and smooths her hair, casts nervous eyes around the dispersing ring one last time. ] Um-- thank you.
[ For what? She isn't sure, but she feels as though it should be said anyway. ]
no subject
She hasn't known freedom. Not truly. Certainly not for the duration of her adult life - curfews and rules imposed first by her mother and father, and then by her agency, the leash passed from one set of hands to another. But even if their circumstances don't totally align (can't, from the way this man carries himself,) she knows too well that hopeless, impotent yearning for control. The hard and occasional need to yank that leash away and run. She's been left alone with it and nothing else in her shoebox apartment for so many nights that the sting has started to dull. Plans made for rather than with her have begun to feel normal.
The spectators are starting to tuck their devices into their pockets and fall away, clicking their tongues in disappointment. They may have been for some time, as the situation imploded dully on itself - Mima hadn't noticed. Her gaze slides from him briefly, then back up, and she nods, nearly imperceptibly, in understanding.
He asks if she can walk - if she can move on from this by herself, she assumes, and Mima all at once remembers herself. She sends a furtive glance around before she straightens her knees, climbs to her feet. ]
I think so. [ Said quickly as she straightens herself, arranges her clothes and smooths her hair, casts nervous eyes around the dispersing ring one last time. ] Um-- thank you.
[ For what? She isn't sure, but she feels as though it should be said anyway. ]