[ This is a problem. Or rather, Claude is the problem. He had been from the start and always would be for as long as he chose to stay in her life or allowed her to stay in his. Suddenly she’s worried that she’s too easy to understand or read. That thought is quickly dismissed - there's never been anything about herself that she thinks needed to be particularly guarded. It’s not as if people would take any particular interest in her aside from her status as Holst’s little sister. ]
I’m not that easy to read, am I?
[ It’s said jokingly for the most part. Hilda knew she had always been an open book when it came to things she liked. Granted, it had always been in her own way: never outwardly mentioning that she liked something in the hopes that someone (usually Holst or her father, and then eventually would-be suitors) would get the hint.
Early interactions with Claude had been similar — but then again, she had never told him explicitly that she liked impressions of Lorenz (or any impersonation if she's being honest). Or that she actually enjoyed being involved in hilarious but harmless pranks, or being told stories from his childhood whether they were embellished or real because it killed the immense boredom that she desperately tried to avoid. He had just noticed because of course he had. It was Claude.
Most would say having someone who knew you that well wouldn’t be a problem at all. It was something some people longed for and Hilda had been no exception. She had just read one too many fairy tale books and foolishly expected too much.
She regards him with his bright smile and extended hand, quietly reminding herself of that. But that smile and the lingering impression are infectious; she can’t help but laugh taking a hold of his hand as she pulls herself off the couch. The movement shifts the cushion, uncovering the corner of the book but it goes unnoticed as she floats towards her room. ]
Alright, fine. Let me change first. I can’t just go outside looking like this in case someone important sees me.
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I’m not that easy to read, am I?
[ It’s said jokingly for the most part. Hilda knew she had always been an open book when it came to things she liked. Granted, it had always been in her own way: never outwardly mentioning that she liked something in the hopes that someone (usually Holst or her father, and then eventually would-be suitors) would get the hint.
Early interactions with Claude had been similar — but then again, she had never told him explicitly that she liked impressions of Lorenz (or any impersonation if she's being honest). Or that she actually enjoyed being involved in hilarious but harmless pranks, or being told stories from his childhood whether they were embellished or real because it killed the immense boredom that she desperately tried to avoid. He had just noticed because of course he had. It was Claude.
Most would say having someone who knew you that well wouldn’t be a problem at all. It was something some people longed for and Hilda had been no exception. She had just read one too many fairy tale books and foolishly expected too much.
She regards him with his bright smile and extended hand, quietly reminding herself of that. But that smile and the lingering impression are infectious; she can’t help but laugh taking a hold of his hand as she pulls herself off the couch. The movement shifts the cushion, uncovering the corner of the book but it goes unnoticed as she floats towards her room. ]
Alright, fine. Let me change first. I can’t just go outside looking like this in case someone important sees me.