She blushes like a wildflower whenever somebody compliments her.

But hates it when she’s gifted flowers.

She’s always looking for faces in the remnants of coffee at the bottom of her cup.

And she’s always searching for stories in the eyes of everyone she meets.

She habitually makes sure to sit in the spots of sun that spill into a room, afraid that the shadows conspire to steal her content.

But she loves the dark and all the solitude it offers.

She considers herself an unconventional romantic, but she’s a fool for conventional romance.

She’s selective with who she tells her story to,

But they’ll all say the same, “She’s not who she says she is”.