I fall into love like the first note of song that will become a masterpiece but its just a few scribbles in the corner of a paper and i have crossed out and written it so many times and makes my heart still when i play it on the paino because something sings and something bursts open

something that i don’t know yet as 

my breath hitches and 

the sharp, clear sound of the keys strucks a cord inside of me 

but then, im playing the messy, unrefined masterpiece to you and im hearing your clear laugh and throw my head back with silly grin, planning to make a joke there but then - 

something stalls

i freeze 

the something i didnt know yet clicks as i watch the soft laughter lines of your sun-kissed face 

and under me the song turns into a unnoticed, choatic mess as i realise

oh im in love 

*the word for when you start to fall in love; euphoria in a sense; the beginning of love.

Lizzie had fallen asleep in her own bed, wrapped up in her worn quilt and the excitement of the first date with her new beau. Rick had treated her to a lovely meal at a fine Italian restaurant before taking her to screening of a new horror movie, The Amityville Horror, much of which she had watched through her fingers. Later, at her doorstep, she had felt the wonderful rush of their first kiss.

She awoke to the memory of his lips on hers and the warmth of his body pressing close but, when she opened her eyes, her giddy delight quickly evaporated. This room was not hers. The bed upon which she lay and the pale peach quilt over her – both softer than her own – were unknown to her. As she pulled her hand to her face, a glint of light caught her eye; a golden band adorned her finger and, nestled next to it, a matching diamond ring.

Her first thought was to get out of bed, get out of the room and the building, and rush home. But she did not know where she was, or how she had gotten there. Was she a captive? Would she be allowed to leave so easily?

Realising she would be better to gather more information before she acted, Lizzie decided to stay put until she could make sense of things. She cast her eyes around the room and only then noticed that she was not alone in the bed. Beside her lay the shape of a person, the face hidden under the scrunched-up duvet. Barely able to breathe, Lizzie reached for the cover, took a tentative hold and gently eased it away from her companion.

The face was that of a man, one she guessed had been handsome in his day. His sculpted nose and strong cheekbones still spoke of the Adonis he had once been, but the bags under his eyes, the sagging jowls and the greying hair – all which placed him in his late sixties – told of the ravages that time had taken on this face.

His eyelids fluttered a few times, then opened. Eyes the colour and depth of the ocean slowly focused on her.

Lizzie’s breath caught in her chest.

The stranger screamed. In his mad scramble to flee from Lizzie, he scooted himself off the mattress and landed on the floor with a thud and a litany of colourful words.

The man’s reaction puzzled Lizzie. She had thought she had been brought here against her will; now she wondered if this man was also a pawn in somebody’s bizarre game. If this were true, then perhaps they could ally together; the enemy of my enemy being my friend, and all that.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked gingerly.

The man popped his head up and glared at Lizzie. His brow was creased in bewilderment.

‘Who are you?’ he shrieked. ‘What are you doing in my bed? Where’s Lizzie?’

‘So, this is your bed? Is this your home?’ she asked. When her brain caught up with ears, she added ‘Wait? “Lizzie”? I’m Lizzie.’

‘Tell me how you got in here and what you have done with my wife,’ the man said before Lizzie’s words breached his confusion. ‘What do you mean, you’re Lizzie?’

He leaned closer to her, his squinting eyes taking in her face. After a few moments, his jaw dropped in surprise.

‘It is you,’ he said in a whisper. ‘What-? How-?’ Unable to complete a question, he reached for her face.

Lizzie pulled back sharply. Though there was something familiar about his eyes, she had no idea who this man was. As he had admitted to recognising her, perhaps he was her kidnapper.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Did you bring me here?’

‘Lizzie, it’s me,’ he replied, as if that answered her question. ‘We came here together, do you not remember?’

Shaking her head, her voice quavering, she said, ‘I don’t know you. I don’t know where I am.’

The man pulled himself onto the bed, holding his hands up to show he intended her no harm.

‘We’re in Vegas, Lizzie. We came to celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary.’

‘Anniversary?’ Her head felt light and her stomach rolled. ‘But I’m not married. I don’t know you. Please. Please, let me go.’

‘Lizzie, it’s me.’ He sounded scared, almost like he was begging her to believe him. ‘It’s Rick.’

Rick. From the night before. The first date, the first kiss.

Looking into the old man’s eyes, she saw the trace of the man, the boy, she had fallen asleep thinking of. The nose, the cheeks, even the chin that now sat atop a second – they all reminded her of the Rick she had spent the previous evening with. But the figure before her was decades older. He was older enough to be Rick’s – her Rick’s – grandfather.

‘It’s not true. It can’t be.’

Tears welled in her eyes, softening the face of the man before her, taking the years from him, and she knew that, somehow, it truly was Rick who sat before her.

’What happened to you? she asked. ‘Why do you look so old?’

Rick smiled sadly, and his own eyes glistened.

‘I’m not old,’ he said softly. ‘I’m only sixty-five. The lines on my face have been carved by the laughter and the pains of our years together. Do you not remember?’

‘But we only went out last night. We went to the movies. We saw-’

‘The original Amityville,’ he finished.

Part of Lizzie’s mind wondered why Rick would use the word ‘original’ for a film which has just been released. She let this thought disappear when Rick turned and picked something up from the bedside dresser. He touched the surface of the small object several times before turning it to her. Looking down, she saw an image of a couple on their wedding day. The man, handsome and dashing, was the Rick she remembered and his bride was…

…her.

‘We were married on April 4th, 1981.’

‘1981?’ Lizzie could not keep the disbelief from her voice. ‘But that’s two years from now.’

Rick touched the device a few more times. What Lizzie had thought had been a single framed photograph turned out to be a gadget which held more pictures. Rick showed her an image of a new-born baby.

‘You blessed us with Anthony in 1984.’ With more touches of his dancing fingers, Rick presented another baby, this time wrapped in pink. ‘And Cleo in 1985.’

Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut to stop seeing the life she had not yet lived.

‘This isn’t real,’ she muttered, ‘this can’t be real.’

‘We’ve had a wonderful life together, Lizzie. Why can’t you remember?’

‘That’s not me. I’m not a wife. I’m not a mother. I’m only nineteen.’

Silence filled the room.

When Rick spoke again, his voice was wracked with pain and guilt.

‘I thought it was just a joke.’

Lizzie looked at him. His chin rested on his sagging chest as he started dejectedly into his lap.

‘We were walking back from the show last night,’ he said quietly. ‘There was a street peddler, doing card tricks. This is Vegas; gambling and magic are everywhere. I though it was just another side show, a harmless distraction.’

Lizzie felt a knot of tension in her belly. As if her morning were not weird enough, she had an unnerving sense that Rick’s story would terrify her to the brink of madness.

‘We were both laughing, a little tipsy. When he offered us the bet, I thought it was a joke.’

‘What was it?’ Lizzie asked, heart in her mouth. ‘What did you bet?’

‘You don’t remember?’ Rick answered, his tears falling freely now. ’He offered you a lifetime’s happiness to guess the colour of the next card:

‘You lost.’

i.

i feel as though

i am a dog

returning to its vomit

ii.

a breathless revelation

within darkness and cocoon of

insanity - i feel the knowledge

of my lukewarm temperatures in faith

and feel unable to turn up the heat, because

how to change the amount of energy

and friction when you don't have anything

to determine where you are now

(my fingers and my hands and my skin)

(feel unfeeling and exhaustingly so)

iii.

i feel trapped in a series of

fantasies; each a dark and twisted version of the reality

i'm struggling to avoid

iv.

i know that if i had the option, i'd have

a million missed calls and a thousand

unread texts; except, i have four unread emails and four drafts of responses

still unfinished, up to a week later

(i feel unapologetic, surprisingly)

(regardless of their increasing importance to me)

v.

i am a machine, working through the motions of

click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

publish and click click click scroll switch tabs type four words press send and

vi.

the music plays in my ears and a rumbling

beating monotony sounds in response,

deep within my ribcage and

it calls out from beyond, to send messages of

somewhat unapologetic apologies to the friends i haven't

spoken to in so long that i don't recall what their

words mean, anymore, and i'm not all that sure how to

read any remaining data of what i've kept from our

conversations of old so i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry for not

saying anything; i'm sorry that my way of saying

'i don't know what to say' is to not respond for such a long time

that you think i'm rotting away as a blistering corpse six feet beneath

the grass i fertilize and the flowers that feed off my remains

while you wait anxiously for a response from my

apathetic

unapologetic

saddened

self

and i think half of my keys are sticky

i should have been more careful, shouldn't i have

both with my keys and with your hearts

(i'm sorry and this time i really mean it)

vii.

i wish i had things to say; nice things to say and

just

things to say,

in general

(because)

(the)

(words)

(aren't)

(making)

(sense,)

(a n y m o r e)

viii.

i spell out words in careful

order and recall what i've said months and days ago

to the ghosts with your names and

to the people you claim to be

(it is wrong)

(to be jealous)

(of you, for knowing)

(who you are, so early in the game)

(when i am a bit ahead in physical)

(space, yet, cannot spell my name without)

(wondering who this person is)

ix.

i wish i knew if these were the right numbers

x.

i wish i cared if these were the right numbers

xi.

i wish i cared about something, today

You will lose everything.

Everything you own...

Everyone you had...

It will all be gone.

And for the first time in forever,

You will be completely:

Alone.

Yet- you find a light through writing.

And you meet some amazing people,

Who help you survive.

People who understand.

People who care, and listen.

Many talented, and incredible writers motivate you,

To keep fighting.

Thank you

The hectic workday squeezed the last ounce of energy I had in me. The instant I closed my eyes, I dozed off like a dead chap. My wife, Clarissa, was a nurse, and she held the night shift that day. So, I slept with my lovely little daughter, Cassie; since she was afraid to sleep alone. But, this unusual fear did not exist in her until a few days before. Perhaps, it was a horror movie she watched, I assumed. But, I never knew, in the least, that I was letting her sleep with an evil spirit.

Somewhere in the midst of the silent night, I sensed someone at the corner of my bed. I was sure my limbs had felt the presence of some other person in this room; I was beyond terrified. The adrenaline my body procured in the next few moments were too much in quantity against the tiredness I procured from a day. My eyes were wide open, and I bounced away from the stranger who seemed like a man. On the second apprehension, I recognised this visitor, and a dread pervaded my mind.

He wore baggy brown pants with a plain white shirt, the suspenders of his trousers dangling relaxed on both sides of his ribs. His black-tie dragged down, the coat missing, he looked very distinct from his depiction in history books. It was the Fuhrer of Germany, Adolf Hitler himself, who was resting peacefully on the other side of my bed. He held his head down, his eyes vacant, and his iconic strands of hair tumbled over his blue eyes. He did not look like an arrogant, superior leader, but more like a weak, defeated man.

Though I recognised this untimely intruder, the first question that escaped the chambers of my mind was, “Who are you?” He glanced at me, surprised, but then lowered his head again as if he realised something. With trembling fists, he propped himself up and proceeded to the other end of the room. He stood near the windows. He was weak; only a shadow of the man who commenced a tumultuous World War and murdered millions of Jews. He could barely stand on his legs, his arms sought for support, but no shoulder served him.

He glanced up at the stars and muttered something; it was faint, but it possessed more power than I could ever gather, “I thought the world would remember me.” His vision danced around; he no longer had a purpose, he no longer had an aim, and his demeanour hinted that he no longer even had life within that frame. He did not turn around, not once; he could not even face a mediocre someone like me. His gaze transfixed to some point far away, and he again mumbled something weak, more uncertain this time, “I am afraid I was wrong.”

Six words. A total of six words summed up against the dictator’s entire life. Was this a confession? A regret? Was it that simple? Could grief possibly wash away his sins? Could anything? This man slaughtered millions, shattered cities, families, all in the name of a miserable objective; to cleanse the world. And he is afraid he was wrong? This man was wrong. Whatever perspective, whatever mirror reflects his story; no version of it will ever deem his motives pure as he stated they were. He was wrong.

All of a sudden, he turned around as if he could hear my thoughts. I was, for a moment, petrified; but his vacant expressions pulled me back together. He leaned against the racks and picked up the bottle of whiskey that I had stored away. He was not asking for permission, and I felt too feeble to question; he had dictated over an entire nation within his palms, and even proposed to dominate over the whole world. That man does not need an elaborate ceremony to take authority of an ordinary house.

“Would you like a drink?” He asked me, having found two glasses from the cupboard. The Fuhrer of Germany, the horrid nightmare of many, even seventy-five years after his death, and he wanted to share a drink with me. But, I politely refused; My daughter was strictly against my drinking habits, and I was putting in my best efforts to comply. But the lack of a company overnight did not stop him; he poured himself a drink and enjoyed the new flavours.

When he was halfway through his glass, Cassie exhibited signs of waking up; the noises inside the room was disturbing her peaceful sleep. Adolf quickly hid the drink behind his stocky frame. When I looked at him, surprised, all I could see was an innocent smile. It was the last thing I expected from such a figure in history, but yes, no matter, however powerful, it doesn’t change the fact that he was still human. And maybe, even a caring, childish heart.

He drew himself up and came closer to the both of us, but his eyes were not at all directed towards me. He only gazed at my daughter, and his features revealed nothing but the delight of seeing a little child. However, something unexpected happened. Just before he was close enough to Cassie, she moved back in fear; she hid behind me, clung to me so tight and her little eyes were full of fear. At this sorrowful sight, the epitome shattered; the happiness in his features faded, the hands once extended for caring trembled in mid-air, and his eyes turned gushing red. But before we could see the tears of someone who had never cried, he turned away swiftly, hiding his emotions and supporting himself against the windowpanes.

After a prolonged silence, he spoke again, “Children used to adore me,” He slowly turned, his voice almost breaking. His eyes were still red, and his hair covering his left eye, “But, I am nothing less than a monster, am I?” That moment, we felt weak air currents moving across our room, Cassie held on to me even tighter. Adolf again gained his vacant, expressionless face and held his body upright, though his left hand still trembled. A few moments later, one end of our room was not visible, but instead, some other infrastructure was present on the other end. A black border covered the places that no longer belonged in this reality; Adolf slowly moved into the portal, not looking back even once. All he left was a glass half-filled.

At last, he turned. An unbalanced grin crossed his face, but it was not one of happiness. But it was more like as if he retrieved a childish fantasy long forgotten. And before the portal closed in on itself, he uttered his last two words, glancing at my daughter, ”Blue Eyes.”

*****

First of all, thanks to @Prose for this wonderful challenge. Usually, the challenges rang no bells inside me. But this time, I was happy. I was able to come up with something. I don’t even know if the dictator is still applicable to the challenge. But, here it is. And, I hope you guys like it. As always, it’s your support that keeps me going ^-^

#fiction

Thalia stood and put her plate in the sink, so Anise followed suit. It was a ritual that Anise was familiar with after two years of rooming with Thalia in college. She would eat, stack all her dishes in the sink, and then never bother to put any in the dishwasher until they were ready to run it.

It was highly inefficient, and back in college it used to silently annoy Anise, but now she found it funny. It was just a Thalia thing. And here, in Thalia's new apartment, she found it endearing that some things were still the same.

"Wait, what time are you leaving again?" Thalia asked, effortlessly twirling her dark hair into a messy bun and securing it with a hair tie from her wrist. It was the kind of thing that made Anise despise her in highschool, among other things; she had never had the confidence to pull off such a hairstyle, even when her hair had been long enough.

But now Anise's blonde hair barely reached her chin, they had graduated both high school and college, and Thalia had become her absolute best friend.

"Probably around three," Anise said, shrugging and leaning against the kitchen counter. She stared at the fridge and not at Thalia and pretended it was no big deal. It wasn't really. But it would feel wrong to leave after visiting for an entire week never having said the things she came here to say.

There were things that Anise had spent a good many months thinking about. Maybe if she hadn't been so focused on graduating college with top marks, she would have taken the time to figure it out sooner. And maybe then it would have been easier to tell Thalia, had she been around for her monumental realization.

If it could be called monumental to anyone but Anise herself.

But telling Thalia her newfound revelation wasn't the only reason for Anise's visit, of course not. When Thalia had invited her over to her new apartment, Anise had been thrilled just to see her friend again, after being separated from her for months. There was something so strange about living with someone every day for two years and then suddenly not seeing them for so long.

Some days, Anise worried that Thalia would move on. Forget about her. That their friendship would fade away and become some distant memory.

Anise smiled suddenly as her mind registered the photographs on the fridge. There were pictures of Thalia dating back all the way to high school, but of course Anise wasn't in any of those. Just those other pretty girls Anise had always envied and hated. Anise knew now how stupid she'd been to feel that way. Because, really, she hadn't hated any of them.

There were photos from college, too. Freshman and sophomore year Thalia grinned next to people Anise recognized, but still, Anise wasn't in those pictures. But she was in the ones after that.

Anise pulled one off to look at it closer.

Thalia had moved to sit at one of the barstools, putting the kitchen counter between her and Anise. She tilted her head and smiled widely. "The Spring Dance," she said theatrically, spreading her fingers wide to emphasize her words. "Remember when we went shopping with Ravi the week before?"

Anise laughed. "Of course; he got that terrible suit. I still can't believe he bought that," she said, setting the photo down on the counter between them.

There they all were: their sophomore year summarized in this tiny snapshot. Immortalized. On the left there was Ravi, Thalia's friend from class, wearing a loud yellow and red patterned suit, grinning as he squeezed into the view of the camera. Next to him was Thalia in her floor-length navy dress, her hair long and straight, her gaze adoringly fixed on the next person in the photo, Dante. He hadn't gone to the same college as the rest of them, but he'd come to visit that day, and his arm was wrapped firmly around his girlfriend, his smile equally as wide as hers. Squished next to him was Anise, her face turned to look at something off-camera, her smile light and her pink dress covered by the jacket she'd insisted on wearing most of the night. Pressed against her other side was Lindsay, her freshman year roommate, her face flushed and frozen in a bubbling laugh. And lastly was Jordan, his hands tucked behind his back, his suit neat and smile pleasant.

Anise's smile wavered as she wondered where they all were now.

"I'm glad I kept it," Thalia said, spinning the photo towards her. She was clearly studying Dante in the picture. She had broken up with him at the beginning of senior year, only to get back together with him months later, just before Christmas. They were still together now, but he was still in school, getting a Master's degree. In a couple of years he'd graduate and no doubt move in with her.

"I thought you threw out everything with his face on it," Anise said with a teasing smile. "The great purge," she joked, spreading out her fingers in the same way Thalia just had.

Thalia snorted and looked sideways down the hall. "I just knew we would get back together," she said wistfully.

Anise shifted on her feet, wondering what she should say next. She didn't usually intentionally prompt discussions about relationships, but liked to talk about them. That's why having Thalia around was nice; she was a hopeless romantic.

"So you just knew? Did you always know?" Anise asked after a pause that was a little too long. They weren't exactly the questions she wanted to ask, but she needed the conversation to continue. It was impossible to subtly steer a conversation, she found.

Thalia's eyebrows lowered a fraction in consideration, or maybe suspicion. They both knew that Anise tended to shy away from conversations about other people's feelings. And she certainly never shared her own, even when she wanted to. And selfishly, Anise did want to.

But Anise had gotten used to not saying anything, of letting everyone else talk about and have relationships while she watched. She had never been able to bring herself to talk, because all too often she felt like she didn't understand what was going on inside her own head. Inside her own heart.

"No, I didn't always know. But I couldn't abandon him. He needed someone," Thalia said shortly, knowing from experience that it was worthless to say much more. Anise usually didn't like much talking about Dante. In fact, Thalia used to discuss her relationship troubles with Ravi more often than with Anise.

For a moment, Anise considered her next words. She wanted to say a lot of things, but like always, she just couldn't.

"Yeah," Anise said lowly, staring at herself in the photo. She had been happy, in a muted sort of way. It was strange because even though she hadn't been unhappy, there still had been something missing, something that she had only just recently found. During college, she had only been half herself, because she didn't know any other way. Because she didn't understand who she was.

How could she communicate the importance of her own identity to Thalia, while still sounding casual?

But, as she had hoped--and feared--Thalia finally sat up straighter, her expression becoming more solemn. "Is something... wrong?" Thalia asked. Her light brown eyes flicked back to the photo, and she picked it swiftly off of the table. "It's not Jordan, is it?" she asked, shielding the photo from Anise's view.

Anise scoffed and took a step back, leaning back against the counter behind her. The handle of a cabinet dug into her thigh, but she didn't move.

Jordan was, for all of freshman year, Anise's best friend. Unlike pretty much everyone else Anise had ever met, Jordan was easy to be friends with. She felt comfortable around him; they worked on homework together, they joked with each other in class, they hung out on the weekends. Anise wasn't usually so willing to spend time with other people, but Jordan was genuinely the nicest person.

And then, as everyone except Anise had predicted, he'd tried to ask her out. Her best friend. She had been mildly offended at first, outlandishly amused next. She had considered that it could happen, but he talked about his best friend from back home--a girl--so often, that she had always assumed that his heart was taken by someone. That she would never have to tell him no. Because as much as she enjoyed his company, she knew instinctively that she never ever wanted to date him.

And maybe that's when she should have known.

"No, it's not Jordan." Anise folded her arms in front of her and shifted so the cabinet handle wasn't digging into her leg so much. None of this was about Jordan, and yet he was part of it. Everyone was part of it, including Thalia.

But that was one thing that Anise was determined not to say.

Anise stood, feeling her heartbeat in her bones. She felt like she was drifting, like she was a star so, so far away, watching from above as her hands twitched nervously and her eyebrows furrowed in thought.

Thalia blinked at her and set the photo back down on the counter.

The questions in Thalia's eyes, the concern, was enough to pull Anise back from outer space. She was here, and so was Thalia.

"There is something I wanted to tell you," Anise said, trying to make it sound light. The worry in Thalia's mocha brown eyes made it clear that she had failed.

Something about that moment made Anise smile, which wiped the worried expression off of Thalia's face.

"Someone else?" Thalia said excitedly, standing and slapping her hands down on the counter.

Clearly, Anise shouldn't have left any silence in between her words. Still, it only made her chuckle, if nervously. "No. It isn't really important, but it's important to me," Anise said, pushing off the counter she'd been up against and carefully pinning the photo back onto the fridge.

For a moment, Anise's back was to Thalia, and no one said anything.

Then, Anise turned around. She had imagined this conversation a million times over the last six days, but she still didn’t know what to say. "It is kind of about Jordan, actually, in a way.” It wasn't what she'd meant to say; she was stalling. But it was also the truth.

Thalia squinted in confusion, and she tipped her head to the living room behind her, then took a seat on the couch, saying, “So he hasn’t done anything else?”

Anise followed Thalia to the living room, which, in an apartment as small as hers, was basically also the kitchen. But she thought it would be nice to sit down, so she sank into the armchair next to the TV. “No,” Anise said, trying not to sound frustrated or confused. She and Jordan were still extremely close friends. What had happened hadn’t been important. And yet, it had.

“I always knew I didn't like him. In a... romantic way. But I've been thinking, and I realized something,” Anise dared to look at Thalia, who was--quite literally--on the edge of her seat.

“I never really considered it before, I mean, I didn't think it was an option. But I think I don't like guys,” Anise said, her eyes skimming over the carpet, her hands clenched in her lap. She felt dislodged, like a star again, but this time hurtling at breakneck speed into the sun.

There was no going back now.

"So, like, lesbian?" Thalia asked. Her voice sounded normal, like it always did. But when Anise looked up, there was a hint of distrust in Thalia's eyes, and it made Anise look away again, the familiar shame washing over her.

They had gone to a Catholic high school, after all. And through those four years Anise vehemently hated all the girls that ever spoke to her, and kept telling herself that one day God would send her a man to love. But it hadn't happened, had it? She'd waited so long, but she understood now. It wasn't going to happen.

She didn't hate girls. She loved them.

And as much as she'd grown to love Thalia, it would feel like a betrayal to admit that to her. She knew Thalia loved Dante. Anise had never expected anything but friendship from Thalia, and right now, that was all she needed. Another soul to talk to, someone to convince her that she wasn't crazy for thinking these things.

"Yes," Anise admitted, her gaze still lowered to the carpet. She felt keenly aware of the warmth of the sunlight slanting through the window, casting warped lines onto her arms.

"Ok." Thalia's response was quick and gentle and even slightly enthusiastic.

Anise looked up at her, unable to hold back a smile. "It's not important, really," she said, her voice suddenly thick. She needed this moment to hold onto. Thalia knew, and everything was ok.

Thalia smiled at Anise, her light brown eyes warm and sparkly. She was, as always, beautiful. And out of reach.

But still, Anise smiled so widely back, her hands spreading open, her back straighter. "It just felt so good to finally realize it," Anise gushed. She just needed Thalia to understand this one thing, if nothing else. "Everything changed, because I've been living my life expecting to like boys, and I can finally... not. I can finally actually live and be--" Anise's eyes snagged on a photograph of the milky way, framed above the couch. "--be me," she said.

Thalia stood, and gathered up Anise in a hug. "I'm so happy for you," she said against Anise's shoulder.

Anise used to feel like a star. A million miles away from everyone else, orbiting and following the path laid out for her. But now she could see the galaxy, and her place in it. She still had a path, she just understood it better now.

For once, she could live for herself, not for the expectations of others. And for once, life finally started making sense.