She sits in a room filled with clothes, trinkets, and warmth. As others take to the streets, her eyes stare at the wall.
So much chaos in the world outside, and so quiet in her room. Will she get up, dress, and leave her bubble, or hover on the edges like she always does, unsure and frightened of what it would mean to remain silent no longer.
Her bed is soft, and so are her hands. Her mind is fragile, but her body is strong. Her conscious is recoiling, but her face is carefully blank. What courage others have, to show such hate, or to show such compassion.
There is no easy way to admit her own prejudices, her own failings, her own judgments, her own weakness. But there is a way to fight, if only she would get up.