Title: I hope He flies
Warnings: Angst and unoriginality.
Summary: He cannot love - it's part of the riddle of his being.
Disclaimer: The rights to Pokémon belong to a lot of people and the ones to Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up (used to) belong to James M. Barrie. Either way they're not mine.
Notes: I don't know whether I loved or hated the book. What I do know is that I cried and bled my heart out at the end. This is the result of it.
He cannot love - it's part of the riddle of his being.
Or that is what is written in a story her mother once had told her, at least. (It's about a boy who refuses to grow up and, if Misty is honest with herself, she can see why he does.) She had been two years old at the time and lucky and innocent and heartless and hadn't been able to fully grasp what this means; (as we all know, two is the beginning of the end.)
Now, however, now that she is older and already half way through puberty, she understands that bitter statement's true meaning and thinks, he never could - never would. Just as the the boy in the story wouldn't. And this isn't the only matter that's the same about them, she realises then.
And that exactly is the difference between her and him. She will grow up and he will not.
(Another inevitably unchangeable part of the riddle of his being.)
It makes her envy him, wish she could be like him, because then she wouldn't have to feel this ache in her chest only a person who's already partly adult can feel. (Only a person who can love.)
But, and she is quite glad about this, that way he, at least, doesn't need to endure that kind of hollow ache. She's sure, he wouldn't be capable of bearing a pain like this; it's too much, too heavy, too thick for a boy - for a simple child - who only knows two feelings: Luck and the affection toward a mother or his friends.
She muses about all of this, whilst carefully studying every single millimetre of his existence and especially his seemingly flawless boyish face.
The only noises in the dark room are his and Brock's even breaths in their sleep and it's around midnight the silence becomes insufferable for her, so she leaves the pokémon center. Stepping out of her shoes and into the grass, cool and wet from the summer sky's tears, small, almost unnoticeable streams of salty water begin to run down her face.
And what else is a young brokenhearted girl in her situation to do?
Crying and cursing and giving in into the cruel fate of having fallen in love with such a clue- and heartless and never-aging boy is about all anyone could manage.
FIN.