this affects me, too, you know.
⋆˙ ⟡ the words land softly, too softly, as if gentleness might disguise their weight. this affects me, too, you know. there is a pause, a silken stillness, the kind she’s learned to wear like perfume, composed, glittering, unbreakable. but something in the air shifts, the way glass hums before it cracks. she turns slowly, every inch of her posture a performance rehearsed in the mirror: the perfect witch, the perfect puppet, the perfect smile. ❝ does it? ❞ she asks, voice like spun sugar stretched too thin. the words glimmer, delicate and dangerous. ❝ how extraordinary for you, to finally feel the weight of something. i had almost begun to think i was carrying it alone. ❞ her hands fold neatly in front of her, a queenly gesture, though her knuckles ache from how tightly she clasps them. the room feels smaller, all marble and candlelight and mirrors, mirrors everywhere, and in each one, she sees another version of herself: golden, obedient, hollow. galinda the good. galinda the symbol. galinda who smiled while oz burned and sang hymns over the ashes.
❝ it must be terribly inconvenient, ❞ she continues, a soft lilt to her tone, the kind that would have fooled a less knowing ear. ❝ for the world to finally ask something of you. for the grief to stain your hands as it has stained mine. ❞ the smile she wears is almost tender...almost. but her eyes are bright and fevered, a cracked kind of loveliness. ❝ forgive me, ❞ she whispers at last, voice trembling with something sharp. ❝ i forget sometimes that i am not the only one the gods chose to punish for loving them. ❞ the silence that follows is heavy, almost holy. glinda exhales, her lashes trembling, and for a moment, her mask slips, not enough to reveal the woman beneath, but just enough to show the shadow. just enough to remind them both that even puppets, when they break, bleed gold.
