Disappointment wishes that people would keep their promises.

Her sighs trail behind her, every exhale plummeting with a weight. Strings of her silver hair frame a droopy face. She shuffles her feet, having already given up on the proper walking stance a long time ago. She keeps a philosophy close to her, one that states: if it doesn't happen, forget it.

The never-ending expectations that she holds and the pain that follows when said expectations aren't met serve as emotional baggage. She hoards this baggage, stores it in her heart for future references instead of expelling it. After all, what else is there to fuel herself?

"I can't believe how disgusting some people are," she rattles on, hands dictated by frantic gestures. Her eyes are bulging, wrinkle lines stretching. "Cannibalism, terrorism, all of the -isms! I'm surprised this world hasn't shut down for business yet."

Disappointment never wants to move on from people's bullshit, and that is her fatal weakness.