The quiet girls are off somewhere reading. You can find them if you look, they're not actually hiding, it's just that few people look. They are wearing dream-like dresses and their hands smell of old books. And they have tucked the little scratches of the day, the careless words, unkind smiles, too much noise, things going wrong, like flowers between pages, to be drawn out gently later as wild and aching poems.
Whenever you approach them they will be at the most important part of the story and in need of more tea.
And if you shook them, which I hope you wouldn't, they'd shed from their cardigan pockets notes about horses, and leaves of roses (the actual roses are in their hair), and a battered old library card, and tissues. They can do many things with those tissues. They can wipe away tears, wrap small presents, place one into a shoe as a remedy for blisters, use another as a bookmark, tend to the scrapes of anyone fallen from a tree, assess the direction of the breeze, write poems on them, create origami swans.
And if you left them, they would sink deeper into silence. So deep so low that the next time you went past they would be gone - down a sunlit road or over the ocean or into some book. You'd spend the rest of your life wondering if you'd done them a favour or not.
And if you kissed them, they would grow wings. They deserve wings. They are the good souls of this world, which is why of course they spend so much time somewhere else, alone and dreaming, safe with their books.
All they every really want is everything (and another cup of tea please.)
illustration by dollydust on polyvore