She stared at the starchy white sheet that sat on the table before her. She made no move to touch it. She made no move at all. She simply sat in her too-white chair with a pencil trapped between her clasped hands.
She's never much liked paper, if
she was honest.
She did like ink, though. She thought it looked harsher than lead or graphite, and so she liked to leave messages she thought were
important with it, scrawled in her tiny, looped-at-the-end handwriting.