The first question pops up almost instantaneously. I startle a bit, my heart racing from nerves and excitement. Before me is an image of a young grey stallion with spiked maroon hair, sporting the name Evil Laughter. I chuckle a bit to myself. “Ah, my arch nemesis!” I joke dramatically, and read the question.

"Why hello there! How are you?“

A pretty straightforward question, I think to myself. The perfect hoof to start off on. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say - but the anxiety from being watched by all of Ponyville halts my confidence. One pony throws me a quizzical look, and everything changes. My face grows hot again. Humiliation comes as a tidal wave crashing over me, sweeping me away from reality with nothing to anchor me down. Familiar, warm tears begin to bubble up under my eyelids, threatening to spill over. My legs shake, and I start to stutter.

"S-sorry,“ I bumble to the assortment of ponies who have stopped to ogle my awkwardness. "Juuust… I’ve got to ans-swer this… thingy, is all. You- you know…” Tears would only bring greater embarrassment, so I fight them back, forcing an obviously fake smile. “The asky… thing…” I chuckle nervously. Hesitantly, the ponies begin to continue on their ways, glancing over their shoulder at me once every few steps.

Great. I curse under my breath. It’s not even the first minute of the first day of this blog, and I’ve already managed to screw it up. I feel the tears push to the very edge of my eyes, beginning to blur my sight, but I blink them away. This is no time to lose my cool. Another question is already hovering by me, glowing softly. I take a shaky breath and turn to read it.

“Well, hello, friend. A new face is never a bad thing! Are you new to this town, or have you been here for a time?”

This one is from a dark red bat pony, with hair like fire, named Ember Hearth. His appearance is a bit frightening, but his question seems friendly enough. I open my mouth, but before I can answer it, another one appears behind it, heavy with accent.

“Howdy, dun think ah’ve met ya, are ya new ta Ponehville?” says Dark Pony.

I begin to wander absently down the road in the direction I’d been heading before the notification, briefly pondering if the questions will follow me. Sure enough, they trail behind like balloons attached to my waist by an invisible string. They’re waiting for an answer, and I have no choice but to oblige.

"I’m not new to Ponyville,“ I explain to the glowing words. "I live in a small cloud just above the outskirts of the town. I try to stay out of the limelight, though, which explains why you two haven’t seen me until now. There are so many ponies in Equestria, after all, even I run into faces I’ve never known who have lived here longer than I have.” I pause, then feel like I should elaborate. “I moved here two years ago, just out of high school, taking a gap year before I continued on to college… though, finances haven’t been what they were.” I blush. “I can’t really afford to go back to school now. Not that it matters; Ponyville is a trade town, for the most part. As long as you’re good at what you do, a degree - or lack thereof - means nothing.”

At this, the two questions disappear, and another question appears. Or, multiple question, I suppose.

“Who are you? What do you do for a living? Can we see your cutie mark?” asks Star Bright. Then a question, from a pony named Bo Diddly, answers one of the first. “Quite a nice "FUN-ciful” name ya got, Miss Lovely Laughter. Speakin’ o’ which, li'l birdie (Wallace) told me ya work at a comedy club. Mind tellin’ a professional punster such as myself more ‘bout the place?“

"Yes, the comedy club!” I say. “Ponyville Comedy Club, to be exact, just a couple of buildings down from Rich’s Barnyard Bargains. I’m heading there right now, in fact.” I nod to the road ahead of me, the Club coming into view on the left side. “I have a shift this evening, and I like to get there early and practice my routine before anypony comes in.”

I reach the building a few minutes later. It’s tall, built with red brick, about two stories high in the back - for the stage - but with a steeply slanted, brown shingled roof that shortens to half that height in the front. A large sign over the double doors reads “Ponyville Comedy Club” in hot pink letters, glimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. I tap my hooves on the door, shoving my nose to it and peering trough the only window into the darkness.

A tall, lanky pony emerges, holding a key ring in his mouth. His dim periwinkle fur and navy blue mane are barely visible inside, but his hot pink eyes, which match the lettering on the sign, pierce through the near nonexistent lighting and right into my anxious stomach. He pauses at the door, glaring at me.

"Af-afternoon,“ I stutter, smiling sweetly. "It’s me, Lovely.”

"Is it really,“ he says through the keys. His muffled words are more of a statement than a question. He glances disinterestedly up at the asks floating over my head. "You brought friends. Great. I was in need of another obnoxious ask blog hanging around.” His burning eyes flick back to me. “Password?”

"Um… please?“ I say, and pout my lip. He raises an eyebrow. "And, uh, you’re amazing at comedy, and I’m only here early to practice in the desperate hopes of someday being like you?”

"That’s not a very funny joke,“ he mutters, but he lets me in anyways, locking the door again behind me.

"Thank you, Deadpan!” I say as my eyes adjust to the darkness. He shuffles by me and back into his office, shooting me his do-what-you-want-but-don’t-break-anything look before closing the door.

"My manager,“ I explain, but say no more on the subject in case he’s listening. I feel my way between the round tables and dining chairs towards the long, velvet curtain that hangs to the right of the stage. An electric panel is concealed behind it, which I gingerly open and flip a switch. With a whir of electricity, a bright white spotlight blasts awake, making me slam my eyes shut. Slowly, as the light warms up, I squint open my eyes and adjust to it. The stage itself is made of light blue plywood, set a few feet above the ground. It stretches from the first table to the bare brick back wall, framed by those rose red velvet curtains and sporting a Ponyville Comedy Club sign that twins the one out front. Behind the matching curtain on the left, I find a door marked "Green Room” and slip inside, Bo Diddly’s and Star Bright’s questions expertly squeezing through to follow me.

The Green Room is, of course, painted green, with soft black couches and tables, and a skylight that illuminates the soft mint carpet. There are two more doors just like the one I came through - one on the left that leads outside to the back of the building, and one on the right that leads straight to the kitchens. The Green Room is where comedians often relax prior to, between, and immediately after their shows, and, as the stars, they’re entitled to the upmost convenience, including free food directly from the fryer. Often times I’d been waiting to bring orders to their tables and seen the door swing open, revealing a somewhat depressed, exhausted comedian who made a beeline straight to the hay fries. My dream job - tousled hair and hay fries. Stardom.

I tuck into the kitchens, still empty and clean from the previous night’s close, and cut through them to the bar that lays on the other side. I’d often seen comedians here, too. Late after the shows, the celebrities could be found sitting on a barstool, laughing with their fellow peers and some of the staff. I, of course, never joined in. My job is to clear dishes and deliver food, not to make drinks or confide with the stars. I keep to myself.

The journey has made a loop around the right side of the building, back to the main entrance. “That’s the tour,” I say aloud, though the whole time I’ve been silent. Bo Diddly’s question has seen it all, though. It seems content. “Open mic nights are on Wednesdays, I’d recommend coming by and signing up!” I add quickly, and then it disappears.

This leaves Star Bright’s questions, hanging alone above me. I reread it. I’ve said who I am, I’ve shown my place of work, and all that leaves is…

"Oh, right,“ I say, glancing at my flank. "My cutie mark.”

Blinking, I lift my wings and turn to fully observe my rump. Even in the dim lighting, the bright colors of my cutie mark - a pink heart with a rainbow flag coming from it - stand out against my scarlet fur. “Well,” I mutter. “I suppose that does need explaining… It is a bit… abstract, after all…” I fluff my wings absently, thinking. “Where to begin…?”

A small pop! makes me jump. I whip around to see another glowing ask from Evil Laughter, floating next to Star Bright’s still unanswered one. Hoping for a helpful prompt, I read the new message.

“Olala! I like the sound of this comedy club! So, do you think you’ll go up on stage and preform?”

I blow a clump of hair out of my eyes irritably. It hasn’t been more than half an hour and I’m already getting frustrated with this “blog” thing. What’s the point if nobody asks you the questions you want? Why even bother answering them if they keep changing topics on you? Is this supposed to be some sort of challenge? Probably, I remind myself.

I hesitate, hoping for another question. The air around me is dark and still, almost sleeping in spite of the active afternoon outside. The only sounds come from Deadpan’s muffled quill, scratching importantly on parchment in his office, and the electric hum of the spotlight. “Ooo-kay,” I say, and drag myself up to the stage.

Here, on the well worn wood of a faded light blue, my nerves and irritation begin to recede. The familiar dips and divets of the stage soothe my shaking hooves. The veil of shadow and silence wraps around me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. I take a breath and close my eyes, listening to the dust settle, feeling the hum of the warm spotlight on my fur. A faint smile traces my lips, growing larger with every breath. My nerves settle like snow in a snowglobe, falling away from my face, my shoulders, my chest, and settling in my feet. Then, quietly, my heart begins to race. The nerves stir, filled with new electricity, filling my muscles. I open my eyes, my smile wider and more genuine than it has been all day.

“Hey everypony!” I call to my audience. I grab the microphone, even though it’s turned off, my voice easily filling the quiet space without assistance. “How are we doing tonight? Everybody have a sucky day?” I can almost hear the murmurs of assent and sparse chuckles in the crowd. “Me too!” I smile broader, feigning a grimace. “You know what happened to me today? I was just walking along, minding my own business, when I got this tiny little notification saying ‘Hey, you seem bored, how about we spice up your life with a bunch of obnoxious questions that haunt you indefinitely? No? Well screw you, we’re doing it anyways.’”

Pop! A question appears above me, from a pony-less image of what might be a watch. I read it aloud to my imaginary audience.

“So, how did you find out about this?” from is-the-killer.

“Well, I don’t know what you mean by 'this’,” I say loudly, “but if you mean this damn blog, that’s 100% true, that’s how it happened, word for word. Well,” I wink, “Maybe they didn’t say 'screw you’, but I got the blog anyways so the message was pretty clear.” Hesitantly, almost, the message vanishes.

“Oh come now,” I say to the thin air. “Don’t be like that! I’m joking, obviously, it’s a comedy club. So what if it also happens to be my honest opinion? It’s a jooooke!” I laugh to myself and begin pacing the stage, mic in one hoof, gesturing wildly. “In all seriousness though, I don’t mind the blog. It has its uses. For example, if I’m ever short on subjects to be angry about, I can just wave my little hoof and-” Pop! Another question appeared on cue. “Voila!” This one is from a light green unicorn with teal hair and a sparkly wizard’s robe, named Lloxie.

“So uh… how’s the weather been lately, Lovely? ( Sorry I suck at thinking of good asks right now ^^;; )”

“See?” I gesture to the ask. “Racism! Just because I’m a pegasus means I know what the weather’s like?” I spread my wings. “I mean, really, unicorns! Always being so pretentious and snotty and racist, every single one of them. Pegasi, on the other hand, are never racist. Especially not me,” I joke. “I mean, its 18 degrees Celsius and mostly clear, but really, anypony with a brain would know that. Well… a brain and wings, of course.” I smile playfully at Lloxie’s question, and it vanishes.

Now that I’ve warmed up, I set the mic back in the stand, pull up a stool, and sit attentively on top. Leaning into the mic, I speak in a low voice. “Alright, ladies and gentlecolts,” I murmur soothingly, “Settle down and listen up. Grab your drinks, dig the fluff out of your ears, and prepare to be either amazed… or bored to sleep. I’m about to tell you the long and emotional story of how I got my cutie mark.” I clear my throat, and the flashback begins.

The doctor peered at me over his chart, his lips pursed. I squirmed on the exam table, where I’d stupidly sat even though the only thing being examined was my mind, not my body. The paper crinkled under my rump too loudly. They’ll have to change it, I reminded myself. I sat here unnecessarily and wasted their exam table paper. Stupid, stupid.

He hummed, scanning one last time over my results before lowering his clipboard and smiling at me. It was almost pity, that smile. It bothered me. “Lovely,” he began. I braced myself. It’s probably schizophrenia, I thought. No, worse than that. I have some sort of emotional brain cancer. Or... doubt creeped into my stomach. Or nothing’s wrong with me. Just puberty, symptoms of being a teenager, the rage of hormones that turns me violently from a filly into a mare. And I’ve wasted this doctor’s time with my idiotic paranoia. I’m being stupid as always. I bit my tongue hard, partly to keep my mouth shut, and partly to punish my stupidity with pain. A flash of worry crossed the doctor’s face at my pained expression, but I brushed off his concerned look, thinking it was probably my imagination. Nobody in their right mind would actually worry about me.

He cleared his throat and consulted my chart. “Yes, well, according to the answers you’ve given me, you are definitely suffering from moderate anxiety, moderate to severe depression, and have many symptoms which would point to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. However, since you don’t appear to have experienced any traumatic events-” his eyes flickered to me briefly, and I swore I saw that worry again, “- my diagnosis, overall, would be Borderline Personality Disorder.”

I blinked, not quite understanding. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.” My face turned hot, and I shut up again.

He smiled. “It’s not an uncommon disorder, but I understand why you’ve never heard of it. Often times it’s misdiagnosed by doctors less knowledgeable than myself. Not many ponies are educated about it, after all. Some think they’re Bipolar. Others think they’re just being too sensitive. But I assure you, there is nothing wrong with you as a pony.”

I ignored the last sentence. “So… what does it mean? I’m sorry,” I frantically apologized again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” But he held up a hoof to silence me, and I did so immediately.

“It means that for some reason or another - genetics, environment, we’re not sure - your emotions get out of control a lot faster than other ponies. You feel things bigger, stronger, and longer than others do, and while that may cause large amounts of happiness over little things, it also causes outbursts of anger, overwhelming sadness, and other negative problems.” He paused, as though waiting for me to interrupt again, but I stayed obediently silent, nodding to show I understood. “I’m going to prescribe you a mood stabilizer,” he continued, scribbling something on his clipboard, “but it’s only meant as a temporary treatment. I doubt you want to stay on pills forever.” He swiftly ripped the paper away and handed me the signed prescription. Lovely O. Laughter, 15mg Moodyctal, take one pill once daily for seven days, then increase to two pills once daily. “While you’re taking this, I encourage you to find a therapist to work out a more permanent solution. Follow up with me in three to five weeks.”

With that, I was ushered out the door to the receptionist office. I quickly made my next appointment, filled my prescription at their pharmacy, and left the Canterlot Hospital with my grey hoodie pulled over my head and a paper bag sporting the Rx symbol hanging from my mouth.

The moment I arrived at my dad’s house, I hurried quietly up the stairs to my dark room and opened the bag. The orange bottle was filled with a month’s worth of small white pills. Without getting a glass of water, I quickly swallowed two of them, too impatient to wait the seven days recommended by the doctor. Then I put the bottle on my bedside table, curled up in my pillows and blankets, and pulled out my current book to read by candlelight.

The change didn’t happen immediately, even with my rushed dosage increase. I hadn’t even noticed a difference when I went to my follow up appointment. I was still crying at stupid things, getting angry at stupider things, and completely lacking any wisp of self control as usual. When he asked if I’d gone to see a therapist, I lied and said I was working on it, but really, I didn’t have the motivation. Why would I want to inflict my presence on another innocent pony? The doctor raised my dosage, and I left with a bottle of slightly bigger white pills.

It took a few months for ponies to start noticing. My dad complimented one day that he hadn’t heard my sister and I have a screaming match in weeks. My sister thanked Celestia that I hadn’t kept her awake by crying like a baby recently, and I ruined the screaming match record. Slowly, I began to find that less and less things bothered me, and I was perfectly content.

But then, upon being dragged out of my bedroom for visit to the market with my dad, stepmom, and sister, I quietly realized that the bright sunshine didn’t seem as bright as it used to. The fantastic red apples we bought at the stalls didn’t taste as good as I remembered. My stepmom’s jokes didn’t make me laugh as much as I was supposed to, and she asked me what was wrong, but I shrugged. Thinking I just needed a bit of cheering up, I went to the Canterlot Comedy Club the next night to see one of my favorite comedians perform. I sat in the back, and I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even care. Which made me care, a lot.
Feeling a bit panicked, I wrote a letter to my old school friend Ashaka, who lived in Ponyville, explaining my worries and asking for advice. Within a day, I received a response.

“Lovely, stop taking that stupid medicine and find a damn therapist. Love, Ashy.”

My loyalty lying more with Ashy than it did with my Doctor, I obeyed the first order and, as quickly as I could with the mounting social anxiety, fear of the unknown, and crippling self doubt, I sought to eventually do the second one at some point probably. This proved even more difficult, considering the abrupt and highly unrecommended cut from Moodyctal led to louder emotional outbursts than before. Finally, tired of fighting with me over every little thing, my dad found a therapist for me.

“Guinea pig therapy?” I shouted, staring at the flyer in my hooves. My dad winced.

“It’s proven very useful with, er, whatsit-” he said gently. “Border… mood disorder?”

“Borderline Personality Disorder,” I snapped. “And how would you know if you don’t even know what it’s called?”

He frowned. On cue, his wife stepped in to handle me. “We’ve talked to Mrs. Greenfield, Love, and she knew exactly what were-”

“Of course she said her stupid therapy was good for whatever I have. She’s doing it to make money!” I slammed the flyer on the table. “You two don’t even understand what I’m going through! I told you, I told you I had it covered, and yet you still went behind my back and found a therapist that YOU like without considering how I feel about it!”

“Lovely, please,” Dad urged. He raised a hoof to pat my shoulder, but I shoved it away. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Look in the mirror!” I shouted. Then I stormed off, slamming the door behind me, and flew to spiral roof, knowing full well that my unicorn dad and earth pony step-mom couldn’t follow me. I pounded on the roof, I screamed and cried until the neighbors shot me angry looks through their windows. I sobbed uncontrollably for nearly two hours. I couldn’t believe they would have the nerve to do such a horrendous thing to me! They hated me, they wanted me gone, they were never going to accept me for my over-emotional self. I sulked for nearly three hours. Then, as the sun began to set, I flew back down and agreed to go to Guinea Pig Therapy without another word.

"And how did this therapy work out?“ asks Evil Laughter.

"BPD, eh? Sorry to hear that, friend. Medication for a condition like that just ruins the world. I’ve know folks with a similar deal. I’m hoping the therapy helped eventually, if not immediately?” asks Ember Hearth.

The sky was patchy, the air was perfectly cool. I was glad to have a good reason to wear my grey hoodie - usually strangers questioned me on my typical attire. I rolled out of bed, slipped it on, and followed my dad out of the house.

“I’m so glad you’re doing this, Lovely,” Dad said deliberately. “You’re making me so proud.” He shot a meaningful look at me, but I remained silent, staring stubbornly at my hooves. We continued quietly for a few minutes, then he cleared his throat. “So… are you nervous?” I shook my head. “Do you… know what you’re going to talk about? Your mom, perhaps…?” I narrowed my eyes at the ground, still saying nothing. His ears lowered momentarily, and suddenly I did feel nervous and awkward. Or he did. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I wanted this conversation to end soon.

“How much farther is it?” I grumbled.

He perked up again. “Oh, not much! It’s just on the outskirts of the city. I guess guinea pigs like to live in grassy, rocky places. Who knew?” He chuckled. I didn’t laugh, and his face fell. “Maybe… you want to consider trying to talk about… some of your ex boyfriends?”

At this, I squeezed my eyes shut, shoving his last sentence out of my mind. “No,” I said, my voice more forceful than I’d meant it to be. I instantly overcorrected with a quiet muttering. “I mean… no, that’s… no….” I trailed off, and thankfully he didn’t push the subject further.

I hoped he would be completely quiet the rest of the way, but with no such luck. A few awkward, silent minutes later, he spoke again, his voice lower than before. “Lovely,” he murmured, “listen. I want you to go into this with an open mind, okay? Mrs. Greenfield is here to help you. She’s not trying to hurt you, and she knows what she’s doing, so I’d really appreciate it if you tried trusting her. This therapy is very important to all of us-”

“I thought I was the only one seeing her.” I interrupted.

“Well, yes, but no doubt, once you get your emotions under control, life should be a lot easier for everyone-”

“So I’m a burden?” I snapped. “You just want me to be normal, do you, so you won’t have to deal with my personality?”

“Lovely, please, I didn’t say-”

“You didn’t have to.” I felt like a striking snake, biting with every word I spoke. Why did he keep pushing me? It wasn’t exactly wise to taunt an irritable viper. Obviously, I thought bitterly, he isn’t very wise.

The buildings were melting away around us, growing smaller and less frequent every block. Finally, we crossed a small bridge to find a white wooden fence and a sign that said, “Mrs. Greenfield’s Guinea Pig Rescue and Therapy” arching over a small gate. Dad pranced up to it. I slumped after him. Beaming at me - or grimacing - he waved at someone beyond the gate and called. “Mrs. Greenfield! I have Lovely Laughter here for your 10 o'clock!”

A tall, grassy green earth pony approached. She wore her mint colored mane and tail in large buns, streaked with gold, and sported small spectacles in front of her large, rosy eyes. Her flank bore the image of a guinea pig with a small heart next to it. She walked lightly but confidently, her hooves landing soundlessly next to a few potato-sized furballs bouncing beside her in the grass.

“Hello, Straight Lines,” she greeted my father. Her voice was much like her gait, soft but firm. She stopped at the gate and peered over her glasses at me, smiling. “And you must be Lovely. Your dad told me lots about you.”

“I’ll bet he did,” I grumbled, averting my eyes.

Mrs. Greenfield seemed to brush this off. “I think I can take it from here,” she said to my dad. “Come back for her in an hour, won’t you?”

“I was actually hoping to go over some things with you…” Dad replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “She can be a bit… hard to handle, at times. What with the outbursts and temper tantrums.”

“I’m right here!” I snapped at his fetlocks. He gestured to me as if to say, “See what I mean?”

“Not to worry, Straight,” Mrs. Greenfield insisted. “I believe I am more than capable of dealing with these so-called tantrums you describe. You’ve seen my licenses.”

“Yes, but, if I were to perhaps, watch from the sidelines, make sure that nothing… goes wrong, I mean.”

“Lovely, as you told me, has a mood disorder. She is not a manticore, she is a pony, and I would much rather speak with her alone without outside… assistance.”

I looked up to see her staring down my dad. She wasn’t very threatening, but her stance was clearly unwavering. A surge of gratitude lifted my chest, and I raised my head to my dad. “I think she’s right, Dad. I would rather be alone.”
He glanced nervously from me to Mrs. Greenfield, then sighed irritably.

“Alright,” he said in a “don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you” sort of flourish. “I’ll be back at eleven. We can discuss this further then.” Without another word, he trotted off, leaving me alone with this new mare.

“I sincerely apologize,” she said to me, opening the gate. “Sometimes ponies find that when they don’t have control over their family members’ mood disorders, they try to control the family member instead. I’m sure he doesn’t realize how smothering he can be.” She winked at me. “Don’t you worry, our sessions are confidential, even if he is your parent.”

“Thank you,” I smiled weakly, “I really appreciate it. He can be a bit… stressful.” She closed the gate behind me.

“Watch your step, now,” she said, nodding to the ground. I looked down to see three lumps of fur gazing up at me. They were the size and shape of eggplants, with fur of multiple earthy colors, from one wiry potato in dusty grey, to a plump ginger squash with streaks of white, to a jet black pear with matching beady eyes. They all had soft, tiny lips, snubbed noses, and large petal-like flaps for ears. And they were ADORABLE.

I sank to the ground immediately, pushing my muzzle to the orange and white one. “Oh my goodness!” I squealed, joy rushing through me. “They’re so cute! Aren’t you, squishy little pig?” The guinea pig sniffed my muzzle curiously, then popped into the air with an excited Wheek! I giggled uncontrollably, nuzzling her furry side. I looked up to see the black one hiding behind Mrs. Greenfield’s hooves, and the wiry rex streaking off through the grass. She smiled down at me.

“I’m glad you like them!” she said, lowering her face to the ground as well. The black one slipped under her chin, watching me cautiously. “That one you have there is Pumpkin. She’s very friendly, as you can tell. Most pigs tend to be a bit more skittish around strangers, but she’s been around long enough to know that I won’t let her come to any harm.” Pumpkin popped again in approval, beaming up at me. “And this one,” she motioned to the one under her chin, “is Shadow. He’s a bit more cautious around strangers, but much more brave than Ringo, that rex who ran away.” With a practiced flourish, she scooped Shadow onto her head and straightened up. “Follow me.”

We strode peacefully past a small, white stone cabin - which I guessed was Mrs. Greenfield’s home - and into a grove of deciduous trees. The ground was, as my dad said, both rocky and grassy, with a smooth grass trail edged by jagged, green ground. Little furry heads with floppy ears and snubbed noses peeked up over crevices and out from miniature caves, some munching grass, others frozen solid. Black and occasionally red eyes peered at me. Once we were completely surrounded by trees, the therapist directed us to a small clearing and layed on her chest, crossing her forelegs neatly in front of her. Shadow hopped down and nuzzled himself against her side, true to his name as he seemed to stick to her just like a shadow. I lay nervously across from her, tucking my hooves underneath me. A soft nose bumped my left wing, and I looked around to see Pumpkin trying to get under my feathers. I unfolded my wing for her and looked up at Mrs. Greenfield, who was watching me with interest.

“She seems to really like you,” she said, nodding to Pumpkin. I blushed and nodded, unable to suppress the smile that spread across my face. “I see,” she continued, “that she got you to open your wings.”

“It looks like she wanted a place to snuggle,” I answered, but Mrs. Greenfield shook her head, which puzzled me.

“I mean, not to say that she didn’t also want a warm place to sit, but Pumpkin is very smart. I’ve found that she knows what my patients need, almost instinctively. You, my dear, need to open up.”

My chest closed, pushing a lump into my throat. Here comes the therapy, I thought. I knew I couldn’t avoid it, but I’d hoped for a minute that I might spend my entire session playing with adorable fluff balls. Mrs. Greenfield noticed my grimace. She smiled patiently.

“Believe it or not, guinea pigs can be very therapeutic,” she said. “Once you can understand their body language, which isn’t very different from us ponies, you may discover that you see things in them that you can’t see in yourself. Their feelings are purer and simpler than ours. This honesty about their emotions helps us greater understand the feelings that others may hide.” A small white pig with a sooty black nose and ears sniffed his way forward, gazing around with cherry red eyes. Mrs. Greenfield made a soft clicking noise with her tongue, and the pig pranced forward quickly, right up to her front hooves. Shadow emerged from her side, the hair on his back raised, a low rumbling shaking his little body. His rump swayed back and forth, tension rising between them like heat from a sunbaked stone. Mrs. Greenfield narrated in a lower voice, so as not to startle them. “Guinea pigs, like us, have a hierarchy system, and conflict can arise when that hierarchy is perceived to be threatened.” The red eyed pig was rumbling now too, but backing away slowly.

“Shadow wants to be the leader,” I blurted out, without thinking about it. “But his confidence needs work.” Shadow was almost imperceptibly glancing at Pumpkin, who watched calmly from under my wing. “He wants to impress Pumpkin, who is the current leader, so maybe he can take her place when the time comes.” I glanced up at Mrs. Greenfield. “But she’s more gentle than he is…” I trailed off. Mrs. Greenfield’s eyes were wide.

“That’s… that’s correct,” she muttered.

I blinked back at her, befuddled. Of course it’s correct, I thought, I just saw it. I felt it. Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t she feel it too? Anxiety and paranoia began creeping up my chest. Pumpkin nuzzled me affectionately, ebbing some of my nerves. I shrank towards the ground, my face burning. “What- what do you mean?” I stammered into my hooves.

“I mean,” Mrs. Greenfield said softly, “that you’re correct. Completely correct.”

“Lucky guess,” I brushed off.

She shook her head, still watching me with what seemed to be awe and interest. Then, with a click of the tongue and a tiny jerk of the head, a golden guinea pig stepped forward from a patch of long grass. He tilted his head at me, then perked up when he saw Pumpkin. He quickly strutted around the clearing, rumbling elatedly. Shadow shrunk against Mrs. Greenfield’s flank again. The soot nosed pig zipped around her rump, disappearing behind her bunned tail. After making his impressive loop, the golden pig pranced up to the center, beaming at Pumpkin, who responded with a calm indifference.

“This is Joey,” Mrs. Greenfield introduced. Joey puffed up importantly, radiating confidence. “Where do you think he stands in the herd?”

I stuttered, staring at the little creature. My brain froze, held in place by his tiny, unblinking eyes. A tidal wage of self doubt crashed over me, sweeping me into a stormy sea of denial. I closed my eyes, shaking my head helplessly. But the confidence radiating from Joey pierced through like a lighthouse beam through the storm. It remained, in spite of the blasts trying to wash it away. I’m just being paranoid, I thought. I’m making stuff up out of my own previous prejudices, I’m just guessing with no basis in fact. Each thought was another wave, slipping under my hooves and tossing me, helpless, into suffocating anxiety.

“He’s also the leader,” I choked out, swallowing a lump in my throat. I braced myself for Mrs. Greenfield’s disappointment.

“And S'mores?” she asked. I peered out from under my bangs, and saw her motioning to the soot faced cherry eyed pig, whose black nose was peeking over her croup.

“He’s near the top of the herd, but not by much,” I muttered, accepting S'mores’ uncertainty through my internal turmoil.

“How about Rosie?” she pressed. An elderly pig with curly white and chocolate hair - greying on the edges - was meandering blindly across the clearing, undisturbed by the other pigs. She nuzzled Shadow affectionately in passing. I covered my face with my hooves, not wanting to answer.

“She’s the motherly figure to the herd.” I squeaked. The waves were dizzying. I felt sick. I just wanted to melt into the ground, to disappear from this terrible reality permanently. Disapproval slammed from above, a minty green figure shaking his head at me from the churning storm clouds. I began to quiver. Why was I subjecting this poor therapist to my stupidity? Why was I letting her taunt me with my own paranoia?

“Amazing,” she muttered. I jolted my head upright, the waves vanishing in a blink. She was smiling at me. Not smirking, not grimacing, not even pitying. She was genuinely smiling. “I thought only I could truly understand the complex hierarchies of the herd, simply because I’ve spent so much time with them. But you, Lovely… you have something special.”

“I do?” I said, feeling a little light headed.

“You do,” she nodded. “It seems that your borderline personality disorder has not only made you sensitive to your own emotions, but to the guinea pigs’ as well. You are so in tune with emotions that you can pick up even the slightest signs from tiny creatures. Tell me… can you do this with ponies as well?”

“I… I’m not sure. I mean… thought I was just being stupid.”

“Who in Equestria told you that you were stupid?”

My mouth closed. The downpour of disapproval still seemed to be clinging to my shoulders. When I didn’t answer, Mrs. Greenfield stood. I followed suit, and we began wandering through the woods again. Pumpkin clinged to my heels. Shadow followed just behind us. We were silent.

My dad was already at the fence when we arrived. He might’ve just trotted to the nearest shop and back. Anxiety was pouring off him, blowing over the grass like wind, sweeping up my legs. I looked up to Mrs. Greenfield nervously. She paused just out of my dad’s earshot and smiled down at me. Pumpkin nuzzled my ankles, almost as though she sensed the anxiety flowing into them.

“Would you like to meet again?” she asked me. I nodded shyly. She beamed. “I’m glad to hear that. Pumpkin has taken a liking to you. So your homework, until we meet again, is to explore this ability to pick up on emotions. You don’t have to act on them, you don’t even have to tell anybody about it-” she glanced at my dad meaningfully, “-just explore it, test your abilities. Ponies are much more complicated than guinea pigs, but since you yourself are a pony with complicated emotions, I have a feeling that you’ll be able to understand them. When you come back, tell me of your findings, and maybe we can talk about why you think you’re not as brilliant as you are.” She winked at me, and I smiled weakly at her. Tears began to brim on my eyelashes, a lump rising in my throat. Nobody had called me brilliant for years - other than my parents, when they were trying to get me to do something productive with my life. To hear it coming from somepony I just met….

“Thank you,” I choked. She nodded.

“Now, let’s go schedule your next appointment with your father. I’m sure he’s anxious to hear every little thing that happened, but don’t worry; we don’t have to tell him a thing.” She winked again. My weak smile became stronger as we continued up to the fence.

That afternoon, I let Dad know I was going out. His ears straightened up, concerned.

“Wh-why?” he stammered. “I mean, that’s great! It’s good for you to get out, get some sun.” He shifted awkwardly, staring down at the dishes he was cleaning with unicorn magic. “Are… I mean, you’re okay, right? Everything’s okay?”

Irritation began to bubble inside me, but I paused its pursuit. I hadn’t been able to get Mrs. Greenfield’s assignment off my mind all morning, and I’d been meaning to use the walk to clear my head and sift through this newfound possibility, yet, through my swirling thoughts, awareness of my dad’s emotions bubbled to the top and floated where I could shakily grab hold. I glanced over his tensed muscles, his furrowed eyebrows creating a little 11 over his concerned eyes, which didn’t seem to register that he was still scrubbing the same clean spot on the plate floating in front of him. Somewhere, I felt a sense that wasn’t quite seeing, nor hearing, but sort of like touching, or temperature - a disjointed emotion that didn’t cling to my heart like my own, but slipped through my fur and mirrored my father. I closed my eyes and gave way to the feeling, pointedly ignoring the voice in my head that said I was nothing special, and I was just being paranoid.

A strange mass began to swell. It was large, tingling that wasn’t hot, nor cold, and sparkling like unicorn magic, but more opaque. It glowed and flowed, shapeless, impervious, running along my father’s tense back, congealing at his compressed forehead. It seized his heart with the foggy grey of confusion, the deep blue of timidity, the dark red of stress, the quiet purple of caution - colors I couldn’t see, but that I almost tasted, colors that only worked with my own associations of those feelings. I opened my eyes to find my dad looking at me. All of his emotions were swirling invisibly around him, fed by his very core. The plate was frozen in mid air.

“Lovely?” he asked. Timidity coated his voice. An unexplained fear began to crawl into his heart.

“Yeah, no, I mean, I’m fine. I just need a walk to… to clear my head. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be back before long.”

His tension released a fraction of an inch. He nodded and forced himself to returned to his dishes. “Well, have a good walk then. I hope it helps.”

I emerged into the early afternoon sunshine cautiously. The hustle and bustle of ponies whirled past. Some were high-trotting importantly, noses in the air. Others were cantering block to block, delivering invitations or packages to homes and businesses. I resisted the urge to pull my hood over my head, and stepped into the street.

The fresh air and bright sunlight began to help almost immediately. It filled my lungs, cooled the nervous sweat on my forehead, rustled my short blonde hair. I closed my eyes as I walked. Worry and anxiety swept away, replaced with a pure curiosity and a miniscule sense of destiny. I made my way down to the park, where a large fountain flowed and birds fluttered in the neatly trimmed hedges. I sat myself on a bench to pony-watch.

Children ran by, radiating the joy and excitement of adventure. Adults dashed past as well, filled with varying levels of stress and unique mixtures of emotions like depression, anxiety, and fear. A brown pony with an hourglass cutie mark and a green tie sprinted through the park, the blackness of danger and fire of adrenaline so evident that it made me freeze, and only released when he was long out of sight. Finally, a bluish grey pony shuffled very close to me. With a sigh, he slumped onto the other side of the bench, placing his head in his hooves. Loneliness, a darker blue than his eyes or teal-tipped blue mane, swelled from him. It curled into his stomach. It slipped into his hooves, trickling down from his face like tears.

I cleared my throat, and he started, whipping up and blinking at me like I’d appeared out of nowhere. “Oh-” he stammered, “sorry, I didn’t-” he began to get up. He was my age, maybe a bit younger, though the dark circles under his eyes made him seem much older.

“No, it’s fine, please,” I motioned to the bench. “Sit with me. I need some company, too.”

He blinked, a bit confused by my assumption that he needed company, but settled back down anyways. A long sigh escaped his lungs, seeming to deflate him. I rubbed my hooves nervously, trying not to stare, but feeling a strong kindred connection between myself and this lonely pony.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Oh… nothing. It’s just… It’s nothing.” It was exactly as I’d expect myself to act if I were him. I racked my brain, trying to think. If I were him, what would I want?

“It’s a beautiful day,” I ventured awkwardly. He grunted. I glanced around the park, searching for help. Ponies continued to canter back and forth, oblivious to the two teenagers incredibly out of place on this beautiful park bench, sitting as far from each other as possible.

“Parents?” I guessed. He nodded, and relief poured through me. This I could relate too. “Same,” I replied. “They think they can control everything I do. Think I need to go to therapy.”

“I wish my parents did that. They hardly seem to pay attention to me unless I’m in their way. Nobody in Canterlot wants a pegasus kid.” He glanced at my wings. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, I understand. We’re too flighty,” I joked.

“Well, at least we can fly away, right?”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“Same.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Some birds landed at our feet, pecking invisible crumbs off the ground. The sun crossed the sky imperceptibly, shadows shifting very slightly. I remembered Shadow, the guinea pig. I remembered Pumpkin, who seemed to know exactly what to do. I wished I was her.

Suddenly, my eye caught a Frisbee, sticking out of a neat, rectangular hedge. I leapt up and trotted over to it, pulling it out of the leaves with my mouth. I looked at the blue pony (blue, in more ways than one) and smiled weakly, holding the disk on my hooves.

“No magic allowed,“ I promised, and tossed it into his lap. He stared at it blankly.

"I’m not very good,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, neither am I.”

He slowly stood up, inspecting the Frisbee. Then, cautiously, he tossed it back to me. I caught it in my mouth.

“Go long!” I called through my teeth, and reared my head back. His eyes widened, and he sprinted away, keeping his head turned to watch as I threw it as far as I could. He leapt into the air and caught it. When he landed, he was beaming.

We tossed the Frisbee back and forth, diving and flying to catch our terribly aimed throws. The sun sank lower, the birds dissipated, but we hardly noticed. Happiness, awkwardness, and blood pounded through our veins. Not only was I able to feel other ponies’ emotions, but I could use it to help them! My flying was strong and easy. Nothing could ruin this amazing feeling.

“To your left!” “Good catch!” “Watch your head!” “Ouf-”

I pressed my hooves to my nose. It throbbed in pain, and when I pulled my hoof away, I saw the glint of blood. The pony ran up to me. “I’m so sorry!"

“Don’t worry,” I laughed, showing him the blood against my scarlet fur. “It blends in.” I slipped off my sweater and held it to my nose, the blood stains mixing with the numerous new grass stains. I smiled at the pony, but he seemed distracted by something behind me. I turned around. “What?”

“Was that there before?” He pointed, not behind me, but at my flank. I lowered my sweater and looked around.

A bright pink patch of fur shined from my rump. My eyes widened, and I curled around to see better. It was a heart, followed by a rainbow flag of red, yellow, blue, and green. I blinked at it, shocked. Only the taste of blood trickling into my gaping mouth brought me back into the moment.

“What does it mean?” the pony asked. “I thought it might be a frisbee at first, but, well, that catch wasn’t exactly cutie-mark stuff.” He smiled at me, laughing awkwardly.

“No, I think it’s what my therapist was talking about.” I faced him again. “I noticed you were lonely, and then… well, I acted upon it, I guess. I mean,” I rubbed my neck, “I think… I can kind of feel emotions.”

“Like an empath?” he asked. I cocked my head. “You know,” he continued, “like that chick from Pony Trek. You feel what others feel. You’re an empath.”

“I’ve never seen Pony Trek.”

He gawked at me. “Well, you and I need to change that.”

“Now?” I asked, and looked at the sky. Time had flown. “It’s getting late, my parents might be worried-”

“Oh, yeah,” he said hurriedly. “I meant, maybe another day. If I come home too late tonight, they’ll definitely notice, and not in the good way.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t asked before. He smiled.

“Col. And you?”

“Lovely.” Then, feeling his confusion, I corrected, “I mean, my name is Lovely.”

“Oh, well, it was ‘lovely’ to meet you, Lovely. I hope you invite me to your cute-ceanera, considering I’m a witness and all.” He winked, much more cheerful than he’d been when I met him. “And you need to come over soon, so I can show you that episode of Pony Trek. For cutie mark purposes, of course.”

“Of course!” I said, a smile spreading across my face. “I’ll 'col’ on you.” We snickered. I tasted blood again, and pressed the sweater back to my nose.

We arranged a time to meet next, and then, with a hearty goodbye, we trotted off into opposite directions. Excitement made my hooves tingle, and, three-legged from holding my hoodie up, I broke into a gallop. My cutie mark! I’d finally gotten my cutie mark!

A slow clap rises from the back of the dark room. I look up from the microphone to see Deadpan, smirking, leaning against a pole.

“You know,” he says dryly, “you could’ve simply said you’re an empath. Would’ve saved me the time.”

Author's Note

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