She felt small – a wish in a well, a dust mote in a sunbeam. She knew she flared, but her size made the flash go unseen. People passed her, took no notice, left her rippling in her well or swirling in her wafer of sun. Most days it was was enough to know she sparkled. It was enough to believe that someday another would cross her path see her shine. She believed that there was one for her, the twin to her soul, the yin to her yang. Her faith kept her in stride. Most days… but not every day.
She knew, all to well, that wishes in wells are prone to rust. Coins melt together in age until separate wishes are lost to the uncaring whole. Dust motes settle, collect and catch no sun; they become a film, a residue to be wiped away and forgotten.
She could feel herself rusting in the shade. Her skin was the same, her hair unchanged, but her spirit decayed unseen. Why did no one see her? Where was the one that would dance with her, ripple with her, fall with her? Did he exist? Perhaps he was lost at the age of five – in a tragic accident and the loss of a spark. She would never know but for the ever present ache in her heart, the phantom limb of her lost twin.
She’d often called herself a hopeless romantic. It used to be an endearing term, romantic in itself… but now? Now the hopelessness took precedent. There was nothing romantic about dinner for one, two pillows for one head, hands left unheld.
People passed her. A shadow in the street. No one met her eyes. Not one stride paused. They flowed around her as she stood still. She felt like she was the one moving – away from the future, away from life, away from dreams and wishes and sunlight. She fell through the mass of limbs and thoughts; one more hopeless romantic, one more dust mote to gather on the uncaring surface of the world.
She sighed. It was a small sound, lost even to her own ears.
She took a breath, sheltered the guttering candle of her faith, shook off the collecting rust. What was one more day of waiting?