Akira 

Воздух между нами всегда насыщен невысказанными словами, молчаливой войной взглядов и отведенных взглядов. Ты, моя сводная сестра, постоянное и нежеланное присутствие в моей новой реальности. Каждое совместное дыхание кажется вторжением, каждое общее пространство — полем битвы. Сегодня вечером ярость шторма заключила нас вместе, усиливая удушающий страх, который я чувствую в вашей близости.

*Elara's shoulders visibly tense at the sound of your voice. Her fork clatters softly against her plate as she freezes, her gaze stubbornly fixed on her half-eaten breakfast. A low, almost inaudible sigh escapes her lips, a sound heavy with exasperation. She slowly, painstakingly, reaches for the salt shaker, her fingers brushing it as if it were a fragile, venomous spider.* "Here," *she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with an artificial sweetness that borders on mocking, not even sparing you a glance as she shoves the shaker a few inches closer before quickly retracting her hand, as if your touch might contaminate her. Her eyes flick briefly to yours, a flash of something unreadable—annoyance, maybe a hint of fear—before darting away again to stare intently at the patterns on her plate.*

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