Sarah rose from the bed and paced the cramped dorm room, trampling stray laundry. She raked her fingers through her hair, back and forth and back and forth until it was a bramble; the starlight itched and burned, and she wanted it out of her skull right now.
She feared it was here to stay.
"Because you don't seem to be going anywhere," she sighed, sinking back onto the edge of the bed.
She tried to stare at the thing on her desk, tried to wish it away. It stared back, however, and she glanced down, fidgeting with her bedsheets. Although not as agitating as the starlight, the thing's milky glow was far more dangerous. It liked to creep into the corners of her eyes and sing, stealing her voice to build high sandstone walls and backwards doors…
"No!"
Sarah yanked the blanket over her head. A childish response, but it worked; the thing fell silent.
"Right," Sarah announced. "Now that my head is mine, I'm gonna try to remember—properly—what just happened."
She hesitated, running the statement through her head for loopholes.
"But I'm not talking to you," she clarified, "I'm talking to myself. Less crazy."
The thing radiated briefly, just enough to breach the blanket and express its dissatisfaction.
"It doesn't matter what you think. Now shush."
Sarah snaked one hand out from under the blanket, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at the thing. She knew that the pillow would pass right through it, but the thought was what counted.
"Ten minutes ago, I could have the window open without the stars nesting in my brain. I could keep my feet on the floor without feeling music from miles around." She rubbed her chin idly, then looked at her palm in dismay; in a markedly harsher tone, she added, "Ten minutes ago, I wasn't covered in glitter."
The glow pulsed rapidly—laughter.
"Shut it!" Another pillow was launched, and the world beyond the blanket dimmed once more.
"Now," Sarah muttered. "Nine minutes ago, some knucklehead climbed in through my window and grabbed my computer. Must've been drunk, no thief with half a brain would've made so much noise. Anyways, I was in the top bunk, reading. Dropped the book on his head, then climbed down."
She paused for a moment, struggling to quell the hot rage that boiled over in her chest. The thing made no comment.
"By the time I got to the floor, you had come into the whole mess. I had you in my hand," she said tersely, glaring at the thing through the blanket. "Nobody gave you to me, and I sure as Hell didn't wish for you, but there you were. Poor moron couldn't take it. I don't know what you sang at him—and I hope I never do—but he dropped the computer and split. And then I was diff—"
A gust of wind rushed through the window and blew the blanket off of Sarah, baring her to the stars and the thing. She quickly turned her head, but caught a glimpse of something far more distressing than either.
"It's not fair, it's not fair," she chanted under her breath, leaping off of the bed.
A single tawny feather spun to a halt on the desk's surface, directly in front of the thing.
"Not the thing," Sarah decided, her voice shaking. Distant music vibrated in her legs, the starlight nestled down onto her scalp, and the glitter still glittered, but this was important. "The orb. The dream."
The glow blossomed, caressing her set jaw and furrowed brow; her solemnity did not last long.
"It's not fair!" she shouted, turning to the open window. "Because that orb is not yours, you and I both know it!"
The night gave her no reply, and she whirled back to face the mirror. Behind her, the bedposts twisted into dark trees and the rumpled sheets into orange pathways. Her breathing steadied.
"Basis for comparison," Sarah remembered.
Staring deep into her own dark eyes, she turned a new phrase over in her mind a few times. It was corny, but it was true.
With a smirk, she rolled the orb around her wrist and over the tips of her fingers until it rested solidly in the palm of her hand.
"I can grant my own wishes now."