She stands in the entrance, half-in, half-out. Her left hand holding her right arm, half-posing, half-nonchalant.
Dressed in white, swathed in fabric, she appears like an angel, half-alive, half-deceased.
On her right a golden mirror where she glanced at her reflection before stepping into the hallway. Unsure of where she has to stand, she decides to pause and wait, half-timid, half-assertive.
Nothing in her stare betrays her emotions. Even her smile never translates how she really feels inside, half-poised, half-tortured.
She is lost in her own train of thoughts. Thinking of a passage she read in a book, or reminiscing about a moment from the past, half-present, half-gone.
If you talk to her, she will probably stare at you for a while before opening her mouth and then closing it. She will bat her eyelashes slowly, elegantly as if we were in a romance movie, half-charming, half-hiding.
Her body is a façade, underneath the layers of fabric and skin lies the soul of a complicated woman whom no one ever understood, half-sacred, half-immortal.