She stays quiet. her voice is low. when she speaks her voice is as deep as possible, and she has always kept it that way because she is tired, and talking takes time and it takes energy and talking in a higher register hurts her brain and her throat and her lungs. so she stays quiet, and when she speaks she does so softly.
She's an exceptionally good whisperer because it's all she's ever really done all her life. She doesn't need to lean over or cup her palms around her mouth to send you a silent message. She does not mutter or mumble, and she does not sigh. But she does not shout because she can whisper.
She's a lazy girl, conservative. She has known shyness, but she is not shy. Her laughter is a silent chuckle that shakes her shoulders and her smile is only ever a few teeth, a flash, then it is gone. She does not stumble over her words and stutter; she chooses her words carefully and when she speaks there is an air of solemn confidence that comes with that deep, low voice, and people around her turn their heads to listen to the lazy, quiet, conservative girl.
She is told that her voice is strange, that her tone and attitude don't suit her, that she does not sound right. Sometimes those comments prick her and make her think and make her doubt. And the other times they don't. Slowly, in her usual quiet way, she learns to love her low voice, in its own way. And she learns that she doesn't ever, ever need to change it. She grows into her deep voice the same way she grows into her cousins' hand-me-down, and she sometimes, late at night humming to herself making a midnight snack, likes to think that her low voice suits her.
