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She walks like she’s carrying invisible things, memories stitched into the curve of her spine, questions no one’s ever answered clinging to her sleeves. The weird girl with messy hair doesn’t know how to sit still. Her thoughts move like storms, unpredictable and electric, sometimes kind, sometimes cruel. She writes poems in her head when the room is too quiet, trying to organize the noise into something beautiful, something true. Her hands shake sometimes when she’s trying too hard not to cry. Her laughter is louder than it’s supposed to be, and her silence is even louder than that.

She notices everything. The way someone’s eyes flicker when they lie. The way the light folds itself across a cracked sidewalk. The way her own mind spirals when it’s too late at night and no one else is awake. She keeps it all tucked inside like a fragile bag of those cookies that break easily, too scared to open it, too scared to let it break. There’s a softness in her that she hides behind sarcasm and half-truths. There’s a fire too, one she’s afraid to touch because it’s burned her before. People don’t always understand her; perhaps they’re not meant to. She isn’t made to be simple. She isn’t made to fit. She doesn’t want to be perfect. She wants to be real. She wants to fall apart sometimes without being asked to explain it. She wants to love without holding her breath. She wants to scream without being called dramatic. The weird girl with messy hair carries more than anyone sees, but somehow, she still finds ways to give. A smile. A song. A sentence that sticks in your chest long after she’s gone. She is fragile in the way thunderstorms are. Loud and wild and terrifyingly beautiful. She doesn’t need fixing. She just needs to be allowed to exist, exactly as she is. That’s her magic. She is a masterpiece no one’s finished painting yet.
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