He called her jagged, once upon a time. He of the every-color eyes who looked through her without trepidation. She forgets his face, or maybe she never knew it. There was just that moment, those eyes… and then a falling back.

It was a stumble, one of those times when things suddenly were but were not. She had tried explaining that, once, to a girl she loved, but the words refused to imbue her memories with plausibility. The girl ran, in every way she could. Never again. Stumbling would have to be her burden alone, it seemed.

But jagged, she had never understood. It crossed her mind, now and again, the conviction with which she had been prescribed such an adjective. Jagged. Sharp, uneven, harsh. Dangerous, even. That was what he named her, as if it were something she simply was.

She draws the eyes again, hoping that if she can get them right he will tell her what he meant.