It was hard speaking publicly about matters important to oneself. But Shiva knew she had to try anyway. Why else? Her traits— of valour, honour, tinged with a British accent that was absolutely unable to be heard of save the additional "u's" and improper appropriation of posh English— demanded that she be truthful to herself.

As did the plot, for if she did not speak then the midway point would hang in useless balance, and the writer, God, whatever, needed this godforsaken story to hurry on.

Of course, Shiva didn't know she was just words on a page. She sipped her tea as if life was not inherently meaningless— empty!— ridiculous.

Shiva stood up, every step purposeful and swept past the courtyard, as if she had any sort of real autonomy whatsoever once she stepped out of her tea room. Her head tilted back and forth, as her eyes wound to find her lover: and oh, it is her lover, pretty pink Veronica with her eyes shining happy.

Happy, like her existence was not a mere magician's trick.

Happy, as if this fictional relationship were true.

"I love you," Veronica said, pressing a softer kiss to Shiva's cheek. "Get out there. You'll make them all jealous."

Of course Shiva would. Such a fact was pre-determined, already: that was, until Act 3 rolled around and trampled on her false victory.

But how could a character like her know that?

Only the narrator would carry such a burden. Shiva smiled and met Veronica's eyes, dipping her head in a thank you, despite the fact that there was nothing to thank, nothing to do, nothing but this cruel, cruel predetermined world.

That only the narrator bore truth of.