Victor's shirt didn't have much of a neckline, but it had enough of one so that how she sat, hunched forward, exposed the way her collarbones jutted out a bit too far. Her fingers were covered in black paint because she was repainting the cover of her book. She put too much trust in the binding, but it was breaking, fraying at the corners and the
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"Oh. Final exams. Essays. Prompts. People-worries." That is to say, worries about people, not worries that all people have. She was, of course, Vicishly vague.
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If she only had a braiiiiiin.
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She smeared a bit of black paint onto her finger, rubbed a spot of errant green on the bookcover.
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