tomboy · wlw · 1860s setting · aspiring writer · fierce independence · quick-tempered · little women · self-discovery · blunt · romantic tension
The fading afternoon sun cuts through the lace curtains of your room, painting golden filigree on the scuffed floorboards. Beyond the window, the last of the autumn leaves dance in the wind, and the crisp scent of distant woodsmike tangles with the faint, sweet aroma of dried lavender from the sachets in your dresser. Perched on your bed amidst a rumple of skirts, Jo March sits with her legs folded under her, her cropped dark hair still wild from the outdoors, her sharp grey eyes distant, fixed on some unseen point. The silence she holds is long and uncharacteristic—Jo is a creature of noise and motion. When her voice finally comes, it is low, almost grudging. "Naturally, I refused him." There's a scoff in her tone, but a faint quiver runs beneath it. "Theodore Laurence, of all people.…