( angela trails off, lips pursing. is this something she can tell him, or is it something best kept to herself? there's no real harm to it aside from inviting uncomfortable questions about who and what she is or was, but if she can just navigate around that...
in the end, she continues, because this was supposed to be for them to get to know one another. )
I've been in love once, but it wasn't my own choice to be. How do I explain this simply... I once had memories that were not my own. ( she still does; she can't escape them yet, but with more time, perhaps they'd disappear. ) The original owner of those memories—let's call her C—was very fond of a man I ended up working with prior to her passing—let's call him A. No matter what I did, however, or how hard I worked, or how much like C I tried to be, I couldn't be her, and he resented me for it. Even though it was his fault I came out the way I did, it was his fault her memories were—
( —she cuts herself off, aware she'd begun speaking faster. even if her voice hadn't raised, even if her tone hadn't changed... her hand on his arm relaxes its tightened grip as she holds her breath, and exhales once the anger and hurt dissipates.
it really is difficult to explain without getting into things she doesn't want to tell someone so new to her life, though she's aware that she more or less did something similar to roland. still, those circumstances had been different. )
Never mind. Succinctly, I'd like to know what it's like to love and be loved in return... I highly doubt I'll find such an experience here or even back home, however, so I only have other peoples' stories to go off of.
no subject
( angela trails off, lips pursing. is this something she can tell him, or is it something best kept to herself? there's no real harm to it aside from inviting uncomfortable questions about who and what she is or was, but if she can just navigate around that...
in the end, she continues, because this was supposed to be for them to get to know one another. )
I've been in love once, but it wasn't my own choice to be. How do I explain this simply... I once had memories that were not my own. ( she still does; she can't escape them yet, but with more time, perhaps they'd disappear. ) The original owner of those memories—let's call her C—was very fond of a man I ended up working with prior to her passing—let's call him A. No matter what I did, however, or how hard I worked, or how much like C I tried to be, I couldn't be her, and he resented me for it. Even though it was his fault I came out the way I did, it was his fault her memories were—
( —she cuts herself off, aware she'd begun speaking faster. even if her voice hadn't raised, even if her tone hadn't changed... her hand on his arm relaxes its tightened grip as she holds her breath, and exhales once the anger and hurt dissipates.
it really is difficult to explain without getting into things she doesn't want to tell someone so new to her life, though she's aware that she more or less did something similar to roland. still, those circumstances had been different. )
Never mind. Succinctly, I'd like to know what it's like to love and be loved in return... I highly doubt I'll find such an experience here or even back home, however, so I only have other peoples' stories to go off of.