Work Text:
The chip comes out with a strong pull, it’s terrifying to look at in my hand. I’m not Bow, am I?
No, because I’m made of something bows aren’t made of. You can see it in the small bits of metal, you can see it in the colour-coded wires, you can feel it in the hard texture of it all, you can see it in my heart; she can see it my heart.
And everything, I don’t even understand any of it. I don’t understand why anyone thinks of me the way they do, because I don’t understand what it’s like to be Bow! And I don’t understand these expectations of what I should like, and these words I can’t process, and these people who think I’m dead, I just can’t understand anything. How am I supposed to be something I’m not when I don’t understand what I’m trying to be?