There is no self-diagnosis for empty. Because hollow and quaking are not symptoms.
Questions pushed aside, not denied but hesitantly unasked.
She stayed still, usually. Unable to disturb, unwilling to interrupt.
Her fingertips bent, folded and danced against her life line. Tucked like her opinions, woven into something and from nothing at once.
She wasn't clueless. Far from.
Not misunderstood, but under-heard. Not quite lonely, but not quite in the light.
Aimless yet not missing. Lost beyond the comprehension of a map. No key to spell out the details that may not be grasped.
At the volume of a drowning gasp, whispered from unconvinced lips.
Her life was a dimmer switch. Stuck before it realized bright.