She had hands, feet and even a voice. I am sure. Though I could hardly make any of this out from the box she was always in. It made quick movements uneasy and her itself unapproachable. But she was too scared to leave these brown walls she had built around herself. They defined her now. Over time, the box grew a little bigger as it got a little stuffy inside; too tiny even for her. But the box hugged her like company would, protected her from ridicule of others and shaped her personality. It was her world. It was all she saw, felt, smelt and did. It was all she knew. It was familiar. Even the loneliness was comforting. She didn’t even need to let out a sound. Who would hear it but her, anyway. She might have had a voice, a personality. But fear kept her within the box. I found it restrictive, cumbersome and suffocating. She didn’t know anything else. So, she never aspired for freedom.