There are so many things Pudding wants to say. I know that song, she wants to burst, to explode with it, to tell this stranger that she's from the same place. Are you a Marine?, she wants to ask, because while there are certainly pirates who sing the same, she knows it's a military dirge, has heard it on recording and never in person. (But what if he is? She's a pirate.) There are things she can't put to words, sounds that die in her throat, and she can't - cannot - decided what's safe.
Does she even want him to know?
How much of her old self does she want to let flounder under the waves and disintegrate into dark foreign waters with her tiny, ink-smeared crane?
She shakes her head a little. She doesn't have to decide now. Right? Like Soldat said...
"I'm - where I come from," she starts, trying to find words that are enough but not too much. "My country is an archipelago. We're surrounded by ocean, and so much of our commerce and travel is by ship. I just - " Her tears well up enough to blur her vision, and she stops to wipe at them with the wrists of her sleeves. This is so much. "I can't even figure out what I'm trying to say."
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Does she even want him to know?
How much of her old self does she want to let flounder under the waves and disintegrate into dark foreign waters with her tiny, ink-smeared crane?
She shakes her head a little. She doesn't have to decide now. Right? Like Soldat said...
"I'm - where I come from," she starts, trying to find words that are enough but not too much. "My country is an archipelago. We're surrounded by ocean, and so much of our commerce and travel is by ship. I just - " Her tears well up enough to blur her vision, and she stops to wipe at them with the wrists of her sleeves. This is so much. "I can't even figure out what I'm trying to say."