Her

I look up, and I see her.  Her hair's longer now, cut in layers as it's been for a while. But it must've been at least a while since she last cut it, even the shortest layer is way past her chin. Now that she let it grow out, her hair seemed more tame, less wavy, more well behaved. One thing though, is how her hair always does as it pleases at the ends. They curl out, both sides deciding never to be symmetrical. Her fringe is another indicator of how long it must've been since she last cut her hair, almost touching her nose when it falls. She subconsciously sweeps her fringe to one side, raking her fingers through a small section of her hair as she does it. With her fingers still in her hair, she starts twisting it and wrapping it around a finger, only to be stopped by two fingers mimicking the shape of a scissors approaching and 'cutting' her hair. She responds with a small laugh, stopping herself. Only to find it happening again and again. 


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 She's walking. Bundling up her umbrella, stumbling as she almost drops her books and folders at hand. This brings a wave of laughter and hands of help, bringing a smile to her face. Obviously used to the jokes about her being the only person with an umbrella, she smiles and shakes her head, letting the comments pass. Suddenly, someone tugs on her bag, telling her to slow down. She looks back, seeing a few friends quite far back. As this is going on, she wonders if her rushed walk will ever slow, knowing it's from her past experiences of deadlines and rushed ways. Shaking it off, the rest finally catch up (hauling a load of comments with them), they say the usual parting words as they each go they're own way, with her continuous laughter following.


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After a full day, of meals and occasional madness, she finally looks up at me. Slowly, our eyes make contact. In her eyes, amusement and joy are the first things I notice, leftovers from a conversation she's just had. A little giggle even bubbles for her lips when she remembers a funny moment from the day. That then slowly gives way to a tired, concerned look. I try to look away, knowing it's better to avoid the questions that would inevitably come, knowing not to tempt the urge to answer those questions. Experience has taught me that. 

Trust me, 
I don't doubt you, it's myself that I'm unsure of.
I'd trust you with so much,
yet not with what you seem to think of me.