She fails to see sparks in her eyes ever since days feel like nights. Even the shining stars look dim in her eyes. They were more like connect-the-dots page spread in the sky. She fails to see the beauty in others. She rejects to accept beauty within.
One morning, she wakes up to a bouquet of flowers beside her bed. They smell sweet, they woke her up. There is a card. She picks it up with her hands and reads it thoroughly.
The next thing she does is to wipe all of the shattered souls on every edge of the room. She picks up her scattered pieces carefully and starts to play the puzzle. She’s putting herself in one piece again, slowly. It has been months, she feels dusty. She feels like an old thing kept, collected, but never repaired. Today, she finally stops feeling like that again.
She frames the card on the wall. And she waits until she becomes her.
