Disclaimer: Spirited Away belongs to Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli.
Summary: The softest touch can trigger a fall.
It was never a good day, and today was no exception. Huddling, crouched next to a battered heap of tin and aluminum, she finally understood the meaning of comfort. Comfort was the next level of appreciation above the cold, wind, and rain. Dreams are not meant to last, and the cold reality welcomed her, almost maliciously, dragging her away from the fantasy of what was. She was no princess, no damsel with her knight coming to rescue her. Life's lessons taught her well, taught her to hate, to fear, to smile thin-lipped as her eyes threatened to narrow, all while feeling an urge to run, away from her life; but there was nowhere to go, no one to run to.
Each morning she rose with the soft whisper of a name on her lips, a name she could no longer remember. It remained throughout the day, lingering bittersweet in her mouth, taunting her with its presence. Each evening, she yearned to see a vast ocean, shimmering in the soft hues of the glowing sun, closing her eyes for only a moment, savoring the time before her eyes would meet the grey buildings in front of her. And each night, she woke up, heart pounding, blindly reaching out for someone, each time her fingers meeting air as she knew they would. It was only her imagination that gently smoothed her hair over her forehead, leaving the barest of caresses across her cheek.
There really never is a happy ending. What has come to pass has already left, its echo ringing through the way it should have been. But then, that dream world is not real, has never been. In her fantasies, the hero never left, never disappeared. Yet here was life, and she found herself caught in a downpour of rain, lightning flashing, her face illuminated by the harsh glow, holding back her trembles as the thunder grew louder and more insistent. She felt no comfort in her mind, no small amount of doubt tingeing her thoughts, not for the rain, but for herself.
All her life, she felt that someone watched over her, protectively, with a watchful eye. Then, she felt safe, free from harm. But, as the years went by, she felt that warm glow of security begin to fade away, slowly being torn off layer after layer. Cold and wet, she finally understood what it meant to grow up. To grow up meant leaving behind childhood dreams, the sweet memories and hopeful innocence that shapes a young heart, to embrace the gnarled, wizened root called wisdom. Then, she understood what it meant to be wise and could see what she could not before. Yet, the ache in her chest never went away after that day she understood, and she never forgot the feeling that she lost something precious to her that could never be reclaimed. The one thought she would not allow herself to accept was that she had known this far longer than she would allow herself to remember.
When suddenly deprived of creature comforts, the smallest signs of pleasure are not taken lightly. The lightest acts of kindness are accepted humbly. The faintest of averted eyes is a reminder you are not the same. She was no princess, no lady to be waited upon. She worked hard for her living, each night gazing at her chapped hands, wondering if they had ever felt this rough before. She had long since learned to block out the unwanted fantasies that played through her head, of laughter and sweet-smelling herbs, and the eyes she could not, would not, allow herself to forget. In those days, she fell asleep each night dreaming of a train, and the faint presence of someone next to her that she could not see.
The cool breeze of autumn was brisk against her thin jacket, and she shivered, watching the moon rise, wan against a dark sky, nearly blotted out by the dark clouds. She may have imagined it, but she felt the soft caress of a hand against her cheek, and felt a puff of warm air against her neck. Dreading the hope that rose in her throat, even as she knew it was not real, she turned, slowly, deliberately. There was no one there, as she knew it would be. Her eyes, downcast, chest heavy with suppressed emotion, she trudged the rest of the way to her apartment, the squelch of her shoes punctuating the silent night. Her body silhouetted itself against the long shadows as the rain settled in securely, a heavy sheet of silver concealing her figure and the shadows that threatened to engulf her own.
That night she dreamed of a bridge, and a hand holding her own, her lungs feeling as if they were about to burst. Her mouth curved upwards in a tiny smile before tightening and forcing itself upwards once more, her fingers twitching as they clenched. 'If only this moment could last...'
Unnoticed, a darkened figure rose, one more shadow darkening the pale light streaming in the room, pausing at the sleeping figure beneath the thick covers. A pale hand reached out and passed the lightest of strokes across the ridge of her cheek. Pausing, hesitant, the hand was drawn back silently and the sound of soft footfall faded away into the dark pitch of the night.
In the end, what is the defining line between fantasy and reality?