Chalk
The doll shivers in your arms, trembling like a candleflame in the wind, like you used to shake and shudder when you knew you had sinned, when you could feel rejection's creeping despair just around the corner.
Her big button eyes stare up at you, pleading, blue thread fraying from the knotted mass at the center of those dark disks; her mouth moves in soundless whispers, the same words over and over again–
Behind her, far outside your arms, tea drips from the teacup's shards.
Finally her litany of apology is broken by a choked “please”, a broken little word full of despair; the tears come faster after it escapes her, the shaking grows worse.
You don't let yourself sigh; just squeeze her tighter for a moment, before padding off to find the chalk.
It's buried in a box beneath your shared bed, locked and sealed and only just starting to accumulate dust; you can hear her sobbing as you pull it out, as you fumble through your purse to find the strangely ornate key.
Today it has an eye; you do your best not to meet it.
Back in the kitchen, you draw an inexpert circle around her, intersecting with a smaller one around the broken teacup; you add layers, little meaningless squiggles and elaborations that somehow feel right.
It's not instinct that guides you, not exactly. Just vibes.
By the time you're done the doll is perfectly still within it, kneeling, staring at the ground. Her tears still stain her mask's soft fabric, but they're starting to dry up, and her thread has tightened enough that her eyes are in no danger.
She looks more like herself.
And of course that's good. That's the point. But–
You're careful not to smudge the chalk as you step inside the circle, as you sit down by her and wrap yourself around her again. She snuggles into your touch, into your body, the rhythms of your heart and your breaths.
For a while everything is quiet.
“I'm really sorry,” she says, her voice soft and faintly muffled.
“What? No, it's fine, it's just a teacup. We can get more.”
“Not that.”
You squeeze her close, do your best to show that it doesn't matter to you, that everything is good–
“I know you don't like the chalk,” she continues. She's always careful not to call it what it is, this play-magic, these gestures at the patterns she was made to walk and has not yet left behind. “I'm sorry for asking you to.”
“I mean, yeah, I don't, but ... if it's what you need, if it's that or you falling to pieces, I don't mind. You matter more than a bit of discomfort.”
She shivers for a moment, hands balling in your shirt; you squeeze her again, feel her warmth, her wet tears on your shirt.
”... I should be stronger.”
“It's a process, right? A bit better every day, on average. It takes time.”
“I guess, yeah ...”
“And, like, the box was almost dusty this time! And you didn't drop into third-person even once. So you are getting better.”
“Oh. I didn't even notice ...” She pauses, curls herself a bit more tightly in your arms; you squeeze her again, quietly waiting for her to continue, for whatever she needs to say.
”... I really do love you.”
“I love you too <3”