Work Text:
To begin with, Julia had never wanted anything to do with the circus. Let alone the people inside who ran it. That was how she was raised, and she can now look back on her life 4 months ago and see just how different it was for her then. But it also terrifies her.
So much change, so many new things she'd seen and experienced, and for each one, one more day marked off the calender.
Sometimes, when her mind wondered as she watched the scenery go by, or as she listened to the noise of the bonfire from her bed, how many more new things could she experience? How many more would change her? And, down deep, buried in hopes of never acknowledging it, was the question of if her father would recognise if she ever got back.
Because with each nightly bonfire, with each name learnt and new skill seen, she knew she was changing, learning, and growing.
Growing past ideas instilled in her head. Learning about sigils, about the government, and about the monster in the attic. But each one changed her. More and more.
She wonders sometimes, if she would even be able to recognise herself anymore. Gone is the worker's uniform that she once ironed and cared for with pride, now covered in colourful patches hiding away all its damage. Perhaps, she's exactly like that. Hiding away all of the unwanted parts of herself to fit in with the troup, maybe she's just trying to mend all the breaking of her knowledge and history into something cohesive.
There are always alot of maybes in her head. Always a hoard of possibilities. And yet, they comfort her with the idea that she may have changed for the good, not the worse. She will have grown and matured and her father would be proud. Those ideas come to her in dreams, normally balanced with the heartbreak of betrayal or a lack of recognition that pierces her awake.
But maybe, it would be the wrong question to focus on. If her father would recognise her. Or, if anyone would really, truly miss her. Maybe, she should have been asking herself, if each passing moment and day was worth being crossed off the calender.
For each day that she sees pass, is another where she knows that a story was made with someone else.
And another that she marks off her calender.