Better things
Lying in the cold windy air of winter, she finds happiness. Peace in watching her breath drift around her face as she breathes out, long and slow. The wind sweeps it away and she takes in another deep breath of air that frosts her lungs.
"It was me." A voice whispers somewhere and it is carried to her on the wind. "All along it was me."
There is a part of her that knows this is her guardian. This is goodbye. A tear rests on her cheek and stays there, frozen to her skin.
"It was me." She repeats, for that part of her that still thinks that she's been imagining things, that she made up her guardian. To keep that part of her quiet, because she doesn't really like that part of her.
She knows that if she just stood up now and opened her eyes, she could find her guardian. And she could tell them everything, and everything would be ok.
But she doesn't want to anymore. She knows them enough this way, more intimately this way than they could ever know each other face to face. And she likes it better this way.