Cold.

She is impulsive and selfish. She leaves her job, where she provides support for her friends and creates a life that should last for the next thousand years. She wears clothes that keep her covered, hot, but covered, because that is the proper thing to do. She eats food that is exotic in the most conservative definition of the word.

She runs away to feel the weight of iron fall off of her chest and shoulders. She runs away to feel cold grass on her feet, to feel the sharpness and roundness of sticks and stones, to feel cold. She runs away to wear loose white clothes that don't really feel like they're there at all. She runs away so both the wind and the sun can take turns in cooling and heating her shoulders. She wants to let her hair grow and grow and grow and never be cut to conformity's rules. She wants to run when she wants to run. She wants to be chased when she wants to be chased. She wants to be close and then disappear like clouds and leave no trace, except for a memory that tastes like cucumber and iced water.

She wants to never ever love, and she never wants to be loved.

Everything she did is leading to that future, that nomadic freedom. Planning the different ways to tell them, "I don't love you." so that it doesn't hurt as much, looking to the East, creating no permanent bonds.

She wanted to be cold.