6.2

In what cloud were you born, frail princess? I fear you, in a way that drills deep to my animal self. You are not like me. Not like any of us.
I have pledged my life to your Keeper, and he has put you in my charge, but that is not why I protect you. It is there, in what I first said, that you are unlike anyone I have ever met. Your skin is dark like a warm night filled with fireflies and no moon, and your eyes follow curious things like the edges of groups or the places where walls meet. Your hands move too fast for your mind and your feet throw you forward into new places, whether you will or no. You are unlike my solid self, and for that I have grown to like you. Perhaps the old adage is true, that fragile flowers are better because they could so easily be bruised.
Perhaps this letter is too forward, ma'am, but I feel like it is my duty to let you know how I feel. The callow fool today who asked you why you--well, he wanted to know the rhyme of your perpetual movement, but he was exceedingly rude--he asked a question I would have made him swallow, were I in charge. I think he has never seen someone who looks or acts like you before, and he wanted to feel comfortable. He wanted you to be the one who stood out in the room, but as soon as he asked it you saw how he fled. We all saw him for who he really was: the only monster in a ballet of otherwise-persons, and suddenly he was the one who stood out in the room. He was the person we would all go home and whisper about, not you. I hope you know that.
I fear you, and I know I have said that already. You should begin to feel why. I fear that one day you will turn to me and let me know I have been unnecessary. That shouldn't be a burden on you, and it shouldn't put you off it when you know the time is right. But I fear you should one day leave my side and that will be the day I truly know how alien you are. For right now, I can convince myself you're like me, but different. You've seen the words I use in this letter. Please, let me hold to that conviction just a while longer. The day you crush my illusion, I'm afraid, is the day I wake up from this very pleasant dream.
I suppose now I'm just rambling, part to keep the letter from ending there, part to hide that I did say fear, perhaps didn't mean it, and now wish to explain it away. But that's the worry when writing with ink, you see--nothing is reversible. That's a problem I don't think you've ever faced. Forthright! Direct! Other-worldly!
I'll be burning this letter. I wish you knew the questions I ask here, regardless, so you might accidentally answer them. Maybe then I wouldn't fear you so much.

--Yours--
Kenji