The star lets her head tilt back - hair spilling over her shoulders and thumb still rubbing lightly at the inside of her wrist.

Her pulse is still strangely fast against her fingers and closes her eyes and wonders very hard why exactly promising to come back had seemed like a sensible idea at the time. Why she seems to have become an utterly complacent, completely foolish, soup-getting pastry.

She is no wonderful girl. She is a star and she is no trinket and she is a moron - her head thunks lightly against the headboard.