Your rhinestone heels, garish against the gray morning, suggest vivacity. You should love life, you should be open and spontaneous. But on your feet they’re nothing but a broken promise. You pair them with sunken, bored eyes and a face pinched tight by perpetual disgust. Nothing satisfies you anymore. Sometimes your mother plucks at your cheeks and insists you were a happy child, but you don’t remember any of that. Her fingers don’t even leave a mark.
Haven't done a drabble in a while. Second person is fun. Sort of. Is it really second person if the "you" isn't so much describing the reader as it is another person? Or is it still second person because the reader becomes Zoya? I mean, second person perspective always makes you do things that you're not physically, actually doing. So...I don't know. Your thoughts?