Chapter Text
“I read a poem once,” Fareeha begins, by way of explanation, “That said that the whole body replaces itself within the span of seven years—is it true?”
Always, she asks things with just a hint of breathlessness—as if, after everything she has seen and done, the world is still beautiful, is still capable of holding wonder.
Angela hates to burst her bubble.
“No,” says she, and considers her next words carefully, “It isn’t. Your bones are only replaced at a rate of about ten percent per year, and your cardiomyocytes—the cells which make up the muscle of your heart—are only about half as fast as your bones.”
“Oh,” Fareeha says, looking just a bit disappointed, “That’s too bad; I thought, well, it’s been seven years since the original team disbanded. It could’ve been symbolic, a new body untouched by the past.” Then, she has another thought, and brightens, “It’s pretty cool that your bones and your heart take the longest to change, though. Still poetic.”
Without another word, she returns to her book, unfazed by having her facts corrected, and Angela is left thinking about the poetry in the things not said.
Unlike Fareeha, she knows little of poetry, of the language of love and wanting.
What she does know is this: she lied to Fareeha, if only by omission. There are parts of the body which never renew; once changed, the central nervous system and lenses will stay that way forever. The way one thinks and reacts, the way one sees—there will never be a version untouched by the ghosts of one’s past.
What she does know is this: Fareeha would not want to hear that; she is not Angela, pragmatic and often cold—she believes in change, in regrowth and renewal, in becoming something better. Unlike Angela, she does not know how much of the past she will always carry within herself, whether she wishes to or not.
What she does know is this: for once, Angela is glad that not everything that is past can be overwritten, that always, come what will, some part of her will have been touched by Fareeha Amari.