The girls' dormitory, night, and the shuffle skip of bare feet arriving long past midnight. Millicent rolls over and presses her pillow to her ears and still hears whispers and sighs and the skin-on-cloth of moving hands and breasts and hips.
Just what idiot, she thinks as she presses her thighs tight together, would leave lush, lustful, lovely Pansy unsatisfied. The sort with a hard, quick prick, now sated and slumbering in his dormitory? The sort with slim fingers and wicked mouth, feigning completion to rest an aching tongue?
In sleep she dreams of both, separate, together, in combinations so complex that not even counting limbs can sort them out. Skin silky soft and sometimes rough, bodies small and large, dark and light, and of colours or shapes that don't naturally exist in the world. She dreams the body multiplied and expansive and always, every one, a hair beyond her reach.
Millicent shakes in her sleep and wakes with tangled sheets and wet fingers, and waking-dreams of a night spent in any bed but her own.
Daylight is anything but illuminating. The more she sees the more she wants the more she wants the more she aches, and why does the ache feel so bad good bad? It's impossible to want both, everything, so very much the same.
Not the pretty girl, she weaves large and invisible among the rest: the lithe, the curvy, the seemingly unfinished. How can things so small be so big inside her, slipping and treading and pounding in her head? She looks down on them all because it's the only perspective she has, or can get.
A classroom, full daytime with bright open windows, and when the constant press and presence of people chokes her she chokes back, punishing the world for the beauty and beautiful ugly. All this everything all the time and she can't breathe, she can't sort it out, can't sort herself out. Giggles and grunts, sighs and shouts, every bit of it a tune that pleases her. Everything something she loves hates wants.
She doesn't know why something so clear to everyone else is so very unclear to her, and why what is a mystery to others is to her as clear as glass. She sees them hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, mouth-to-mouth, and wonders how they can possibly know who to want, what to be. And not know how to be it.
Millicent is a clever girl, but it's hard to think things that feel like they've never been thought before, never been conceived before her. She could make somebody very happy, she knows this as surely as she knows her own face. She just doesn't know who.
Shoulders, breasts, thighs, calves, cocks, cunts, Millicent punches a wall and sometimes thinks she's going crazy.
There aren't any words in any language that she knows for what she thinks, hopes, feels, desires, needs. Millicent wonders if she might be the one to finally write them.