[There's a phantom itch in her fingers, and she curls them against her palms against it. Zelda feels like there's a torrent of words waiting to explode out of her. Their slow crawl up her skin is only the beginning, if she lets things continue like this. Her gaze falls to the ground, her jaw clenched with frustration.]
I only wish -- [Damn it, she hadn't meant to speak, but she stumbles onwards.] -- that using my journal had helped at all. It just made this worse.
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I only wish -- [Damn it, she hadn't meant to speak, but she stumbles onwards.] -- that using my journal had helped at all. It just made this worse.