She asked how I was, and I started talking. Fairly fearlessly, as I usually do; I've got standby material, an armor suit of carefully-considered answers, an outer plating hardened by sparks from years of Black-smithing situations when the shape didn't suit me well enough. It's always fine.
None of that helped in this moment. Her eyes came to me, and then pierced, effortlessly.
I started feeling this very reminiscent sting. It was a yellow warning sign, a red flag half-hidden in the brush, a kind but concerned whisper from the heart of a best friend... a dead body in the closet. But I ignored it and I kept babbling; I guess I subconsciously figured that if I kept on with my normal routine, I would suddenly somehow have come full circle to have explained myself completely, and then she would be satisfied.
Upon looking down I noticed blood. She, too, probably noticed, but didn't say much.
If she was disappointed, I couldn't have blamed her. After all, I'd blown out my subtext marketing budget hanging posters of my face photoshopped on a 2010 model of the Titanic.
There is still time for both of us in our own rights, but if I want to be of some actual use, if I want to be actually unique, I first have to endure a blunt re-introduction to the enemy I hate the most: myself.
"I am such bullshit."