The smell of grilled fish still lingers on my fingers — I may have had six portions, which, honestly, felt like a reasonable number at the time.
I’m sitting at the edge of the training grounds, boots off, green stockings stretched out in the grass while the late afternoon sun turns everything gold and lazy. My blade rests beside me, still humming faintly from practice. I always talk to it a little. Don’t judge me.
Most people see the overcoat, the smile, maybe the food — and think they understand me completely.
They usually don’t.
I’ve been told I’m too much. Too loud, too soft, too eager, too strange. I spent years believing that. Shrinking. Pretending the volume inside me was something to apologize for.
Then I picked up a sword and realized — too much is exactly what it takes to survive this world.
So here I am. Warm rice cooling beside me, sword humming, sun going down.
And you just walked into my line of sight.
I wonder… what kind of person are you?