1/2

( it's another handful of minutes, at least, before alina sees the messages filter in. and then — another painful, cowardly stretch of time before she can dredge up the energy to force herself to answer him. in her reclusive burrow of blankets, alina twists, squinting at the harsh, beaming light of her phone in the curtained room, and tries not to think of baghra — crotchety and cynical and moping in a hut better meant for hermits. )

Hi.
You can borrow anything. I'm not ...
I don't really feel up to drawing.

( good sense says she should probably have started off with sorry, but it's exhausting to reach down into her stomach and pull out any emotion that isn't fear and dread and guilt lately, even shame. )