( mila stands beneath the spray of water for much longer than necessary, face tilted up and eyes closed; the past month has worn her down to the bone, and there was a part of her that gave serious thought to just lying down beside her pod and refusing to move. can't be bothered. tired, sick of feeling sick, too much still to do-- fuck it.

she lingers under the water instead, and then when she shuts it off, stands there a little longer, remembering how to be herself. how straight her back always is, how purposeful her walk. the particular way that she holds herself up, the tilt of her chin and the way she doesn't fidget, just moves. when she's sure she's not going to disappoint herself, she reaches for her towel. )