ᴘeach ; sa ✕ lk
People are used to believe Aisha has no emotions, which is only aggravated by the lack of expression she usually wears. Very little times she has been actually told that and the giggle – that sounds more like a snicker – that leaves her lips are, rather, iconic, admitting the saying is the ugly damn truth. Or is that what she likes to have everybody thinking and gossiping until her ears are burning red and laughing until she can’t breathe.
But there is another part of her who keeps a box of wood, dusty and pretty and old like the ones you can read up in cheesy romances and doesn’t let anyone see, so it stays hidden under her bed until she is bored, or emotional enough to open and to peek at the tons of papers and photos and cards and things too small and too insignificant to anyone but her.
A day when she has another piece to add at this box was one to celebrate, and that’s what she definitely would. Anyone could notice when that day had arrived, but they were quiet even when she passed by the neighbors greeting them good mornings, with hair fixed right and pretty and clothes as decent as she could find and – as odd as it probably sounded – red, used with a Fire Nation symbol, would always take place on her vesture in any way.
This day, it was inlaid as a button in a light shirt, not calling more attention than the smile she had plastered on her lips as she stood on Republic City’s wharf. The letter on her hands didn’t smell funny enough for it to be counted as old, which was probably the reason for her excitement as she held it behind her, before lifting it for another read to confirm that yes—he was late.
"One more minute, Kuo." Aisha said to herself, scrunching the paper between her nervous palms and taking another look at the horizon; a ship broke its way and appeared on the oasis, and the woman bit her lip, raising her feetballs off the floor. It could be him now, couldn't it?