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Mira knew feelings. Emotions. It was second nature to her now, especially after the copious amounts of expensive therapy and being given the space to actually understand what they meant. She could read people like books, could see the little quirks and shifts in demeanour, the changes in tone, the way the air seemed to shift and shape. A tool, kept in her back pocket, only brandished when needed. Every person catalogued. Every detail memorised. Commanded like choreography, steps and timings and energy moulded to shape. Mira knew feelings, and the depths to which they could span. She felt and felt and felt, her bones ached with it, joints heavy, muscles sore and bruised, body damaged again and again.
But it was invisible. There were no marks, no scars, no reminders, nothing visible to the outside world. Hidden behind walls and layers and masks, chips and cracks in a stone façade for those brave or foolish enough to find. Mira knew emotions. Learned to bear her teeth at them, brandish her weapon first, deflect and bite and snarl. Keep them at bay. Keep them at arm’s length. Never show, never feel. Feeling was danger, feeling was weakness, feeling lead to pain and to hurt and to keep biting back. Mira knew how to feel. It was all she knew how to do.
Disappointment. The unhappiness or discouragement that results when your hopes or expectations have not been satisfied, or someone or something that is not as good as you had hoped or expected. It entangled itself in her earliest memories before she could even understand what it meant. The twitch in her parents brow when she stumbled in ballet. The sharp sigh at colours bleeding outside the lines. The silence that followed after a near-perfect test score. Mira couldn’t voice what it meant to her, how the scratch in her throat felt a little too much, the pit in her stomach a little too deep. Couldn’t voice that her teachers were proud of her, so why weren’t her parents too?
Mira knew disappointment well. It followed her like a ghost, clung to her skin and twisted in her lungs. Was it her own fault, really, to expect and hope? To watch the parents of her peers dote after their children, congratulate them with open arms and praise so sweet and free-flowing, while her own failed to show? Was it her own fault to hope that one day, she would see the same light in her father’s eyes as when her brother got the same score in the same test, while her mother simply hummed in response to her own? Was it her fault? Mira was given food, given shelter, given everything that a child could possibly need to function and to survive. But that was all. Simply survival. Merely survival. Never thriving, never growing, never warm nor swaddled or saved.
Resentment. A feeling of indignant displeasure or persistent ill will at something regarded as a wrong, insult, or injury. Borne of the disappointment, swelling higher and higher, bloating her tongue so hard Mira swallowed back bitter venom and bit down to the metallic core. It would burn through her veins every time she would perform to a crowd of parents who were not her own. It would spit and spark on the nights she was left alone at home while her brother was at a game or a competition or award ceremony. It wound sting behind her eyes as she sat at foreign tables, watching friends be enveloped with attention and interest from parents, who tried to hard to include her too. But the language was too foreign, the wounds festered and raw and aching.
Mira tried, tried to hard to act the picture of polite and proper, stone faced to the world just to get through the interactions unscathed. Tried to be normal, said please and thank you and warred with the thoughts in her head. Prayed that maybe, maybe someone would notice. Would take her aside, ask once – just once – if she truly, really, was okay. Someone to notice her short answers, her vacant stare, rehearsed words as the cry for help she yelled until her throat was raw. Her walls, too high, too hard, another wrong.
Fear. An unpleasant - often strong - emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger. Mira had fears as a child. All children did, she reasoned. Just the basic things: the dark and monsters hiding in the shadows, barking dogs and raised voices, the sound of thunder, being alone and forgotten and abandoned… Normal. Rational. Nothing out of the ordinary. What child wasn’t scared of being forgotten? What child wasn’t scared of being abandoned? Of their parents raised voices and sharp tongues and harsh glares and poised hands? What child wasn’t scared of saying something in the wrong tone, wearing the wrong clothes, eating the wrong food, getting the wrong score on a test or befriending the wrong people or scraping their knees or having a nightmare? No, that was all normal. Children were born in fear, it was natural.
Her fears as an adult were normal, too. She was a high profile idol. A hunter. A woman. She had real, tangible fears. Ego death. Physical death. The death of her friends, her bandmates, her family, her… Her everything. Fear was a powerful feeling, it gave her purpose, gave her motive, kept her sharp and keen and aware. Fear made her who she was. Gave her bite, made her eyes keen and her reflexes sharp. Fear kept her alive. Kept them alive.
Anger. A strong feeling of displeasure and usually of antagonism. A threatening or violent appearance or state. She was told it was her strongest emotion, the face she wore most often, what she was known for. Aggression, short-fuse, bluntness. Mira said what she thought, no frills, no messing. What was the point? She had never been afforded the grace of honeyed words. She had never been handled with grace and care. Mira kept her anger contained as best as possible, kept it chained inside like a wild beast. Because that’s what it was, that was she was told she was. Wild. Untameable. Unpredictable. Rash.
But her anger came from somewhere else. Somewhere softer, tender. Somewhere broken. After all, who would not be angry as a child, begging for attention and affection? Who would not be angry as a child, left in the shadows? A child ignored, a child belittled? A teenager scolded and unwanted and never quite right? Who would not be, as a person who’s best was never enough? Who’s kindness was taken for granted, stretched thin, repeatedly demanded? Who’s fragile, delicate heart was shattered? Body, damaged? Self-worth, taken? Everything Mira was, everything who she wanted to be, was never her own, never hers to decide. Soft and decidedly human, cold and decidedly feral. Two sides, one coin, one face, one soul.
All Mira wanted was to love and be loved, but the world had showed her no, that was not for her. She was not for that, not made for that, not born for that. Mira was born to bite and claw and bleed and bleed and bleed. Only a tool. Only a pawn. Useful. Used. Oh, how she wanted to be used. Anything to takes the thoughts away. The thoughts she shouldn’t have, the thoughts that would ruin everything. If she was useful, and wanted, she could wall the feelings away. Keep them in a box. Ignore them. Carry on in life without ever acknowledging, naming, defining. Feeling. Seeing. Wanting. Desperately, endlessly wanting. But, she had want she wanted, didn’t she? Mira had what she wanted. She had her family. Forced together by an unseen will, but there all the same. Forced, but perfect. All she had wanted was family. People to see her, care about her, understand and know her. Huntrix was that for her. Rumi and Zoey. The Honmoon had brought her to them, them to her, bound them together. It deemed them family. Friends. Inseparable.
And yet, the hunger remained. The feelings remained. Day after day, more and more. New feelings. Strange feelings. Feelings that Mira had seen in different coats, different guises. Feelings wrapped within feelings, black and white melting into grey. Unknowns. More fears, more anger. Guilt. Shame. Longing. Feelings she shouldn’t have. Feelings outside of friend, of family, companion. She felt it whenever Zoey laughed too loud, too bright, suddenly and all at once. She felt it when Zoey smiled, wide and shining and blinding. She felt it whenever Zoey would get excited, body practically vibrating with uncontained energy, limbs flailing in wild gesticulation over something Mira would give anything to hear again and again. She felt it in the brushing of fingertips in the kitchen over chopsticks and ramyeon. She felt it in the bump of knees under singing tables, heads rested on shoulders, in the passing of bodies on stage. Mira felt it in the space between her ribs, heat in her cheeks, goosebumps on skin. It was like bathing in the warmth of the sun, a gentle breeze across the ocean, birdsong and bakeries. She felt it whenever Rumi commanded a room, all eyes on her, voice even and controlled. She felt it when Rumi giggled, light and airy, melodic and tender. She felt it whenever Rumi tended to the garden, careful fingers parting new leaves and patting fresh soil. Mira felt it in the softness of her voice when asking about her day, through the steam of fresh tea. She felt it in the smoothing of costume sleeves and the fixing of her bows. She felt it under exhaustion, whispered words and silent thanks. In presence and persistence. Mira felt it settling deep in her stomach, tender in her limbs, the quiet of her mind. It was like the guiding light of the moon, the glitter of fresh snow, the comfort of petrichor and paperbacks. Mira could name it, wanted so desperately to, but voicing it made it real. And reality had been known to crumble around her. To crash and burn. To disappoint, to disrupt, to destroy. She was always the instigator. Always the cause. A never-ending cycle of loss. If she spoke it out loud...
“Mir?”
At the sound of her name, Mira lifted her head slightly, vaguely registering the words on the page in front of her. How long had she been reading the same line? She could feel her glasses half way down the bridge of her nose, her vision blurring slightly at the top. It was Zoey’s voice that registered, a little softer than usual around the edges.
“Quiet time?”
Zoey stood just on the threshold of the lounge pit, a few steps from the expansive sofa. Baggy loungewear in yellows, greens and a cartoon turtle on the long sleeves, she clung to her Switch almost bashfully. Her hair was down, part over her shoulders, still clinging to the curls from braided buns. Quiet time was a new code, a new question. A way to ask for time together with no obligations, no plans. Just company. Togetherness. Closeness. Something agreed between the three of them one late night for a reason she could hardly remember. Lowering her book to her lap, Mira quirked a smile, head tilting slightly to one side in a silent approval. Zoey smiled the smile she loved the most, dimpling her cheeks, scampering over with a whispered ‘yes’.
Soon enough, Mira was back to reading, glasses back in place, elbow propped on the cushion on her lap. Zoey was to her left, legs to the side and curled up, head squished into the backrest as her fingers tapped rhythmically on buttons. With every page turn, Mira shifted her gaze, watching the concentration on Zoey’s face under the harsh glow of the screen. Noticing the delicate trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The tiniest peek of tongue past her lips. Chipped teal nail polish and a single plaster on one finger. Kettle splashback. It took all of Mira’s strength not to tuck a strand of hair behind Zoey’s ear, or smooth a crease in her hoodie. Once again, though, she was taken out of her thoughts by movement out of the corner of her eye. From down the hallway, equally casual as the rest of them, crept Rumi. Her braid was loose, hastily put together after a shower, arms bare and patterns soft against her skin. There was a fond, almost reverent smile on her face as she paused and surveyed the couch.
“Room for one more?”
“Rumi! You don’t have to ask to join quiet time. Remember? Just grab a seat.”
“Oh… Right, yeah, sorry.”
Zoey set her Switch down as she spoke, shuffling slightly on the sofa so she could point to the other side of Mira.
“Mira doesn’t mind, do you Mir?”
Just hearing the casual nickname made her skin tingle. She nodded once, using her free hand to pat the area besides her, smiling.
“Pretty sure this sofa’s big enough for all of us. Even if Zoey sprawls out. Your sudoku is still here on the table, if you want that.”
Rumi slowly made her way over, eventually settling down close to Mira and getting into her puzzles. It didn’t take long before all three of them were back into their activities, wrapped in their own little worlds. It was nice, having a calm time together. No obligations. Just a shared moment. As Mira turned over to the next chapter, she felt the sofa dip and fabric rustle, before a heavy weight landed against her thighs. She was used to Zoey’s need for physical contact. Her way of showing affection. If it wasn’t an arm around a shoulder or held hands, it was this; draping herself over the nearest person. Especially while gaming. In fact, her favourite spot was lying on someone. Leeching warmth, she had said. It made Mira acutely aware of her own body, feeling every rise and fall of breathing, heat radiating. There were truly not enough words in any language to help her describe just what it felt like internally. How her mind would wander, innocently, greedily drinking it in. How her fingers would itch with the burning need to stroke her hair or lay a hand on her stomach.
The thing that practically stopped her breathing, though, was when Rumi shuffled closer. It was subtle, barely there, but every so often the couch would shift slightly and her pen stop moving against paper. Mira could see it out of the corner of her eye, the way Rumi tried to be inconspicuous. Before long, she was soon enveloped with the scent of lavender and chamomile, Zoey and Rumi, both of them combined the closest they had been. She felt like a deer in the headlights, even though her face was trained to show otherwise. Heartrate picked up, the skin of her shoulder starting to tingle, the feeling of hair brushing against her arm making her mouth dry. Concentrating on the words of her novel became impossible when a soft sigh passed Rumi’s lips before she leant to the side and carefully planted her head against Mira’s shoulder. That there, was her undoing.
Mira closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath through her nose. This was normal. They did this all the time. This was how they acted. So why, why did it always make her brain shut off? Why did her stomach turn into bubbles? Why couldn’t she just love? Because it was wrong. So wrong, so very wrong. Wrong and dangerous. Love meant risk, risk to lose it all, to have everything she had worked so hard for taken away. Risk to be abandoned. Fear of being ridiculed. Rejected. It would break everything valuable, break it in such a way that nothing would ever be able to fix it. Damaged beyond repair. Mira was not about to risk all of that. No matter what it did to her as a result. No matter how much she had to keep a straight face. Keep everything closed up in side. After all the work she had done to be open, honest, communicate. No, it was better this way. Better for all of them. Mira’s love was too loud, too bold, too raw and real and delicate and tender. Too much, far too much. She couldn’t love them – wouldn’t – not like she really wanted to. Not in the way that made her knees weak, her face flush, her breath and words stutter and die on her tongue. Not in the way that haunted her dreams, kept her awake at night. Not in the way she wanted. The way they deserved. Rumi and Zoey deserved the world and if given even an iota of a chance, Mira would do anything and everything for them. And that, that was dangerous too. Mira would give herself over in whatever way they would have her. Which, right now, was as a glorified cushion. In between the racing thoughts, she barely noticed that Zoey had left her Switch on the table, planted next to Rumi’s also deposited sudoku. Barely noticed the silence, the calm, the quiet breathing. Zoey stretched her arms out behind her head, fully sprawled now across both Mira and Rumi, humming softly. The delicate sound pulled Mira from her reverie, gaze dropping to see wide eyes looking up at her with an almost coy smile.
“Love you, MiMi.”
Mira had to bite the inside of her cheek in order not to choke.
“Mmm. Yeah. Love you Mir.”
Rumi piped up. She said the same. Mira’s world stopped. Everything felt too much, too loud, too close. She tried not to lock up, act normal. With a steadying breath, eyes closing, she levelled her voices as best she could.
“Love you too. Both of you.”
And she did. So much. So, so much. Much more than she would ever tell them. Mira loved them both. Was in love with them both. Wanted both of them for the rest of her life. But if this was all she could have, just little moment, then she would take them. Take them with both greedy, clawing hands and push them deep into her heart and cage them there in silence, never to be spoken. Just held.