She opens her box, peering once more into the physical manifestation of her person. Clothes. Jewelry. Personal effects. This is all she has; if someone were to find this container and know nothing else of her, it would be the only thing by which they would know this girl. Meticulously examining the contents, she sighs, and with a single graceful movement both turns and shuts the lid. As she strides across the floor, the only sound is the gentle click of her shoes against the hard wooden floor. She opens the doors, and is greeted with a fresh breeze and a light ocean spray. The sound of the sea is intoxicating, hypnotizing; she grasps the rail as though she will fall without it. Her eyes, however, are steady: Staring into the horizon, none could guess what lay behind those bright blue windows.
He sits, surrounded by others and yet alone. Creative but stifled, he has little opportunity for pure creation. Still... He writes. Stories of adventure, tales of mystical lands, epics of grand proportions, come alive at his fingertips; the banal click-clack of his keyboard belies the wonder entering into being on the screen. This time, he is writing a story about a girl. Yes, a seafaring girl. Her nautical adventures shall be chronicled, first in his mind, then at his fingertips, to be engraved forever. How he would like to meet this girl. Of all his fantastic adventurers, she is by far his favorite: Strong and bold, with no fears... On the outside. Once she gets to know someone, she softens, and lets them into her fortress of solitude. She allows herself to be exposed, only to her closest friends, because she knows that they allow the same for her, and together they can grow. Long hours spent: Conversing, laughing, smiling. A single glance carries all the meaning of a thousand words. She is his favorite.
Her eyes clear. Withdrawing from her fantasy, she shakes her head. She must be realistic. There is no man imagining her. Chronicling her adventures. No one wants to meet her. It is only her fantasy. And yet, as the ship sails onward, she cannot suppress the faintest, tiniest, ever-so-slightly bitter smile: She wishes that her fantasy were real. She wants to be wanted.