Missy Stone 'link' -

She said, “Yes.”

Her friends—few but ferociously loyal—describe her as a human vault. You can tell Missy your ugliest secret at 2 AM, and it will never surface again, not even as a joke or a sideways glance. That kind of discretion is rare. It’s also heavy. Carrying other people’s truths leaves bruises on the soul, and Missy’s soul has the faint, purple-black mottling of someone who has held more than her share. “Stone.” It’s almost too on the nose, isn’t it? A name that suggests immovability. Impermeability. But here’s what people forget about stone: it erodes. Wind, water, time—they all leave their marks. Missy’s face is young—late twenties, maybe—but her eyes have the patience of someone who has already outlived a few versions of herself. missy stone

Her best friend, a loud-mouthed bartender named Dez, once told her: “You’re not mysterious, Missy. You’re just waiting for someone who deserves the real version of you.” She said, “Yes

She often thinks that people are not so different from books. Both accumulate damage. Both can be rebound, repaired, preserved. But neither is ever truly the same after the breaking. It’s also heavy

Slowly.