Do you miss me?
Do you think of me anymore?
I already know the answers to those questions. I want to ask you because I want to hear your voice. If I asked you those questions, you would be sure to answer me. For how could you leave me so curious, so wanting? So sad, so lonely…? Don't you remember that what I fear the most is being alone?
But I know the answers to those questions, too.
You used to tease me because it seemed like I knew everything. You would tease me because I could tell you why sapphires could be other colours than blue, because I could tell you where all of the constellations were, because I could tell you right from wrong.
We were beautiful.
But we didn't know each other.
I didn't know you, and you didn't know me.
But now you know me, and I don't know you.
Who are you?
Do you want to be alone?
Who are the people you like to be around?
Do you know I still think about you?
After so long, I still think of you. Before I go to sleep, I think of you. When I read books, I think of you. When I wake up, I think of you. When I walk home, I think of you. When it's dark, I think of you.
When I'm in pain, I think of you.
We were beautiful.
Do you remember the first day we met?
Of course you do.
You orchestrated it.
In a dusty antique store, in the middle of the marvelous glitter of fashion boutiques and hair salons, my hair was tied up messily, my face was between the pages of a book, propped up in one hand while the other held up a (your) ball. Restlessly I turned my head back and forth between the ball and the book, trying to use one to explain the other.
Yes, I remember that flit of excitement that ran through my body as you removed the ball from my hand so rudely. So lovely. Gently brushing your fingertips against my palm in the motion.
Your eyes were nothing remarkable, and the way you dressed reflected the air you carried about you; that you believed you were larger than life, that you believed you were somehow better than I was. But I believed I was better than you.
For so rudely interrupting me, I questioned you,
"Excuse me? Can I.. help you?"
while I also tried to snatch back my antique plaything.
You knew I would try this, and you held the ball closer to your body. Silently, you closed my book between your thumb and forefinger, slowly, holding a curious gaze with me.
I let you close the book. I let you take it away from me and stood there motionless while you held them.
In the arrogant way that you speak, you told me,
"These belong to me."
and you calmly smiled at me and bought the items.
Thoughtlessly, I watched you buy them. I was mesmerised by you. I saw you peek over your shoulder to see if I was looking at you. The meeting of our eyes brought me back to where I was.
In a dusty antique store, in the middle of the marvelous glitter of fashion boutiques and hair salons, my hair tied up messily, face almost magenta with the heat of your gaze, jealous that you had come in with the intent to buy my (your) book and plaything.
You turned your gaze down and looked away slowly, with purpose, knowing that once you left, I would follow you.
I did not know yet that all of your actions had purpose.
So I followed you. At a distance to begin with, but you stopped soon after I followed.
In the middle of the sidewalk, you turned and faced me with your entirety.
"Why are you following me, Twilight Sparkle?"
I had never heard my name spoken with such wryness. Good natured wryness, if there was such a thing. I simply stopped. The world passed us by as we stared at each other.
The wry smile etched upon your face came to mix with one of sympathy, and you held out your hand.
So very eagerly and yet with my customary guardedness, I reached out and I took your hand, excited and terrified to suddenly expose myself to this new world that I knew I understood nothing about. Yes, I followed you with childish innocence, though trying to hide it, pretending to stumble along the force of your stride as if to say, "Are you crazy?", not knowing that you intended to show me light and then break my heart, but trusting you with my whole being.
And so you took me along, away from the hustle and bustle of people the day and into the solitude of nature at night. I was breathless, but you were fine.
Brooding in the seemingly hidden clearing. Looking around to notice a broken, crumbling, and boring statue with an equally boring faded plaque. Surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges. Startled by the sudden, gentle gliding of your hand to my wrist (something you'd never do again) as you whispered, "Come here," in a way that thrilled me because I knew it meant, "I have something wonderful to show you".
Like a duckling to it's imprinted, I followed you behind the statue (that was unworthy of your attention) and copied you when you stooped down In front of a small chest, cutely identical to something a pirate might bury in a fairy tale. You opened it, predicted that I might be confused by its contents, put your finger to my lips to silence me. You took the blank book and pressed it into my hand; it was hardly bigger than it. Reaching into the chest to retrieve the other (better) book, you asked me,
"You want to believe in magic?"
and opened the book to the first blank page.
You didn't ask me if I did believe in magic because you knew I couldn't. But you already knew I wanted to.
I knew you knew the answer, and I opened my book. The pages were discolored with age and I thought it was beautiful. Experience was beautiful. But while I was caught up in the beauty of faded glory, you were creating magic, the likes of which appeared in my own book, words that I will never forget, and wish desperately that time has not forgotten.
Share my magic, Twilight Sparkle.
The words, written in black ink, shimmered with pink glow.
You had amazed me. No one had ever amazed me before. Since forever I knew what they were going to do.
How could I have predicted that?
But that's what you wanted.
You wanted to be the first (and last) one to end all of my forevers.
You didn't allow me to revel in the book for long. You wanted me to attribute the magic to you.
Stars began to fall. It made the world darker.
The magic of midnight, when you kissed me for the first time.