The girl stares intently at her computer screen, her fingers flashing across the keys, words appearing like magic. Her eyes wander momentarily, and she closes them and puts her head on her desk. She drums her fingers on the edge of the keyboard, thinking.
The creature outside presses her bubblegum pink forehead on the glass, watching. Her cotton candy-like hair is mussed and dirty from days outside. She rests her tired head on one hoof--no, hand, and sighs. She would never be able to be a part of this world. No, she would be an outcast forever. She wrote an imaginary letter to her friends in her head, picturing herself typing like the yellow-haired girl inside. She fiddles absently with her puffy tail, her fingers trying to type in the soft pink fluff.
Dear Friends,
There is nothing like in our world here. The people are as strange and plain as one of us without a tail. I. too, have changed. My hair is damp and cold, it doesn't keep me warm, and the people keep staring. I'm not the right color, it seems, all of these people are the same few hues of brown, and yellow, and pink, but not my pink. They talk and laugh and shout, but they hardly ever sing. I miss our world, and I miss me, too.
Sincerely--
The pink girl pulled her hair forward, shielding her face and her bare arms from the icy fingers of the wind, and pictured her swirly signature at the bottom of the imaginary page.
Pinkie Pie
