crystalised

It's got something to do with how she'd initially manifested, or something. Wisal doesn't really know, only that melancholy and fatigue, even that kind that lurks in thoughts and not expression, expresses and manifests itself as sleepiness.

She comes to Rico's abode without her usual glow. The intrigue she usually inspires, a kind of remarkable unquestioned spark in her has undoubtedly been depleted by a day's hard work and an usual level of commitment. It was Valentine's day, after all. Of which, Wisal is somewhat the patron saint. Her hair's lost its shine and her toes touch the ground. Her dress is soft, oddly modest.

But there's a small gift wrapped box in her hands. The golden, glittery bow feels funny in her palms.

"Ricky, are you home?" She says, walking up closer.

RICO ? ? ?