September was one of those months that brought mixed feelings. It came with allergies, the blessed middle-season weather, strawberries, the handing of report cards, and Twilight Sparkle's indifference when she found out she failed seven subjects out of fifteen.

Her friends were shocked as they apparently had her on a pedestal of intelligence along with her doppelganger. Twilight just shrugged it off. There were worse things, like failing an entire year while having parents who expected a minimum grade of nine.

At least the educational psychologist wasn't as insistent or annoying as those at her previous schools, and when she saw her report card she didn't give more than the usual speech, with maybe a little more understanding and a pinch of empathy.

Celestia didn't seem fazed by the potpourri of sixes, fives, and fours either. She simply asked if she wanted to save her grades now or to prepare for the exams in December. Which was strange to her, as Twilight (unconsciously) assumed she'd listen to a half-hour-long lecture with complaints about ruined vacations.

And after two months of living with Celestia, that was the hardest part to get used to. Having an imposed routine meant an exact schedule for everything. How, when, and where to do what. There is no space for flexibility.

Celestia wasn’t strict at all. Of course, she had her schedule, like dining between nine thirty and ten, or things that were inevitably repeated because if you don't pay for the services, then the State and the banking entities will chase you until they take away all your possessions. Even so, Twilight was free to organize herself as she pleased, to do things at her own pace. She could lie on the couch for three hours straight watching TV, and she wouldn’t hear much more than suggestions for coffee or something similar. No lectures, no “go do something productive,” nor “don’t you have any homework to do?”

Twilight was so used to the rigidity of measured behaviors, of having to comply with schedules and activities in a certain way, that so much autonomy, she had to admit, scared her.

Or, well, maybe scare wasn't the exact word. Something more akin to… bewilderment? Disorientation? Uncertainty? Twilight felt like she was made of toy bricks, and once the five-hundred-piece cruise ship was taken apart, unless the instructions were followed to a T, it was impossible to build it from memory. She felt as if she’d been asked to put it back together from scratch, no matter the result since those were the ways of art these days.

The problem was that Twilight was used to doing everything following exact, strict instructions. A list of steps to follow in an unalterable order.

It wasn’t like Twilight disliked the idea. On the contrary, now the air reached her lungs in its entirety. But there was a point where it was annoying that instead of scolding her, everyone tried to give her the psychological talk and be understanding of what was going on in her head. All under the excuse of her "situation" (which was neither that important nor that special).

But that's what biological mothers were for, right? To keep the structures and a straight back.

During that talk about low grades and undelivered lectures, Celestia offered the possibility of calling her mother to sign her report card. As was usually done with irresponsible parents or forgetful children. Or mothers who were busy traveling for work.

Two plus two equals four. It didn't take long for Twilight to say yes, with the idea that maybe they bumped into each other in the hallway and her mom thought of asking about her life.

Thankfully, she wasn't wrong.

During her two o'clock class, her preceptor showed up to tell her that someone had come to save her from her lack of interest in the damn subject. When they reached his office, Velvet was waiting for her for a supposed dentist appointment, already signed her out and everything.

Twilight had the decency to contain herself and act normal, instead of running to hug her as if she were in kindergarten instead of high school.

Before, when there were no uncertainties and the radiant tens deserved it, her mom used to pick her up from school with the same modus operandi. There was a medical excuse most of the time, and they ended up having a coffee somewhere. It happened on miraculous days where her mother had the time and good humor to spend some mother-daughter time and talk about trivialities. Girls business, she said.

This seemed like one of those times, so Twilight wasn't going to waste it no matter the situation. Especially after two months of seeing nothing but her picture in the newspaper.

"You look prettier," Velvet commented approvingly, tucking a strand of hair behind Twilight’s ear. "I heard you're going to the nutritionist?"

The nutritionist was a pain in the ass. She helped her organize the calories and nutrients she needed, sure, but she always tried to add more than necessary. Twilight just stopped taking her pills and started sleeping at least six hours a day. But it's not like she could tell her mom why her complexion went from oily to combination skin, and since Velvet already had threatened to take her several times, she opted to indulge her and ignore the rest.

“Uh-huh,” Twilight nodded with a small smile before getting curious about the information source. “Why? You talked with Celestia?”

“We barely exchanged words, nothing more.” The tone indicated the opposite of a casual conversation, so Twilight chose not to inquire further and let her mother hug her by the shoulders with affection, feeling it as a small fire, as they left the school. Not like she could say she missed her or something, it’d be too direct and raise questions.

Besides, Velvet had always been like this. Sometimes she wouldn't give her the time of day and would send her over to her father or her brother. Others, she was so over everything Twilight did to the point of annoyance.

Insufferable beyond belief? Quite.

The indifference was worse.

“I don't have any dentist appointment, do I?” Twilight asked when they reached the car, just in case. Her backpack was a mess, and if she needed her necessaire, she might as well look for it now through loose folder sheets and the book she brought to read in class.

Goodness, she had to sit down at some point and try to restructure herself a bit.

“No, honey,” Velvet replied, no reprimand in her voice, as she checked to make sure the street was clear to backtrack. “You had your yearly teeth cleaning back in April, remember?”

“Ah, right.”

Twilight could barely tell it was mid-September because the third line of her report card was still empty.

She couldn’t remember the dates no matter how many times she wrote them in the top corner of the pages. It was easier to rely on the activities or subjects of each day. Tuesday? First two hours of Literature, and Nutritionist in the afternoon. Wednesday and Thursday? Blessed AP Calculus. Saturday? Be a listener in the group therapy she was forced to attend.

Before the silence became awkward or her school situation came up, Twilight decided to start a conversation. And what better option than to play it safe: her mother's work.

As said and done, The next ten minutes were about the progress the entire research team made after fifteen years, the official presentation of the papers at different international conferences, what was left to do, etc., etc., etc.

Twilight listened attentively, asking questions at the right time. A lot of the time she did it to avoid possible lectures, but Twilight would be lying if she claimed it was a mere way of dissuasion. She always asked about her parents' research projects, and they were fascinated by her interest. “The interest that Shining never had,” they'd said.

It was one of the few things Twilight had in common with her parents. And perhaps something she missed about them.

Well, maybe she missed a few other things. Little bits.

That was until Velvet said something about sacrifices needed to improve the quality of human life, and Sparkle automatically stopped listening, turning her gaze to the beautiful life outside the tinted windows.

For a moment, an instant, the rebellious idea of reproach was born. Of telling her once and for all that those weren’t sacrifices, but drastic choices she made. Unless Twilight was bleeding to death in front of her, then her mom always had other mom's priorities. Sacrifices were those made by the religious groups on the riverbank at night.

Was she really not able to make time in her schedule to greet Twilight on her birthday? A message, a five-minute call at three in the morning. Even if it was a day before the congress and a five-hour time difference with Germany. Even her father sent a text to her old phone. A simple “Happy birthday, have a nice day. I love you.” that gave her mixed feelings.

“Inhale, exhale, calm down. Casual. There’s no point in thinking about it.”

What for? To ruin the only moment of peace they might have after two months? To go back to the same old thing? The tension, the fights, the lectures?

Better to change the course of the conversation, think of something nice. Or at least, less frustrating.

“Where are we going?” It was the first thing that came to Twilight's mind, out of curiosity. To remember the menu of the place and think in advance what to order, more than anything.

“Home.”

That answer was followed by a second of silence and a blink.

“What? Why?” Twilight bit her tongue for speaking so quickly. It was hard to change the subject this way, to change sudden feelings into calmer thoughts.

Her mother looked at her with her typical look, the one where she raised her eyebrows, and the obligation to nod with what she said was implicit.

“What’s the problem? It’s your house, Twilight.”

No, it wasn’t. Not anymore. Or was it? Twilight left on her own, somehow that meant it didn’t feel as… as much as a home, or whatever it was called.

Still, beyond technicalities, she just wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. The idea gave her the kind of chills that sat in the stomach with heaviness, after traveling through all the nerve endings. The ones that indicated that all-too-familiar discomfort.

Twilight wasn’t ready. And five minutes weren't enough to mentally prepare herself.

Not like it would help. How many times had she mentally prepared for inevitable things and it turned out to be in vain? It hurt less, yes, but only a bit. The negative feelings wouldn't go away.

And here, now, saying no was not a possibility. How could she?

“Nothing, just…” She took a lock of hair from the back of her neck to start braiding it as fast as her fingers could allow. More effective than pulling out the split ends of her hair or biting her nails, and her hair was left with nice waves. “I wanted the carrot and walnut pudding from the cafeteria across the train station, that's it.”

Well, there was nothing to lose by disguising a suggestion with the excuse of a craving.

Her mother's only response was an affirmation that they would do it next time (who knows when) since she didn't suggest it earlier. Sure.

“What’s not convincing you that you're frowning?”

Twilight turned to look at her mother, trying to hide how perplexed the question left her. In general, it was more common with Night Light, because he paid more attention to all those anxious habits. And, well, with Shining too. With her brother, she sometimes felt as transparent as the glazier's daughter.

A moment of silence and escaping glances passed.

“…Just you and me, right?” she murmured.

“Yes, Twi. Just you and me, don’t worry.” Her mother gave her a gentle caress on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. That, wow, did manage to feel like it, who knows how. “You’re still a kid, even if you don’t feel like it. There are many things you’re not responsible for.”

And Twilight, who was already on her third braid, relaxed her shoulders a little. She wasn't going to claim the cliché of one less burden on her, those never went away. One less contracture, one less discomfort, perhaps were more appropriate terms.

Twilight realized her fingers were working on a fourth braid when her mother parked in front of the house. Which seemed odd, considering the entrance to the garage was empty. Unless her father’s car was inside? But he usually came home from work at around four in the evening.

According to the clock on her new, modern phone, it was almost three o’clock.

Twilight’s legs didn’t shake when she got out of the car.

What a beautiful thing, the sense of security.

It was an important feeling, a fundamental feeling. Crucial for self-esteem, being confident about oneself and your surroundings, to standing up with a straight back in front of everyone and do a presentation without stuttering to get a radiant ten.

Crucial to make decisions without blinking twice.

How long had it been since they moved to this house? Four, six years? Five, at least.

Twilight didn't live here anymore. It wasn't her house anymore. Unofficially.

However, there was familiarity in the sounds of the keys, in the small pathwalk of eight steps to the main door, or the wooden coat rack in the hall. Or the natural light that bathed the living room, or the pictures, or the redecorated old furniture.

Everything was in the same place as always. From the small hedgehog-shaped mud-cleaning statue at the entrance to the empty hooks for keys that would be hung after four o’clock in the evening.

Everything was the same, and the air was still reaching Twilight’s lungs.

Maybe not everything, then. Maybe it had to do with the little details that made it whole and not the whole thing per se. Knowing what to do with the given solutions.

“I have to take this to the study, why don’t you make coffee in the meantime?” suggested her mother, in a tone that sounded as if it was and not a disguised order. Well, not the usual imperative tone. Almost, almost a hundred percent genuine suggestion. So much so, that Twilight considered suggesting tea. Tea was a mood sweetener lately. “The capsule ones.”

Had the stars aligned or did these two months also affect her? When her mother came back from a work trip she had the same attitude as always, and was usually Twilight the one that got clingy. For obvious reasons.

“Oh, uh… Okay.” She nodded anyway, with some (a hint) of enthusiasm. Who could refuse good moods and quality coffee?

Twelve steps from the hall to the kitchen, passing through the living room. Steps walked with confident muscles, with a calm and relaxed pose. The wood creaked the right way under the sole of her sneakers and the natural light invaded corners of a house where the air reached her lungs. Just like returning home from vacation stress-free, well-rested, and everything seems simpler.

How nice would it be to be able to combine older things with the current flexibility. Maybe she could convince her mother of something like this. To reach a middle point, a stable point. She seemed to have enough humor to listen, or to at least to be open to negotiations.

Or maybe not. Maybe Twilight would just have to say yes to everything, and once she was out, she'd think of the best options. It was a matter of knowing how to improvise.

Or maybe she could throw her passive attitudes to Hell and demand to know what her father was doing in the kitchen, with coffee and a laptop just like every time he sat there because he liked who knows what about the space.

Night Light greeted her with his typical smile, as if Twilight left due to circumstantial changes or as if she returned from a school trip. And Twilight stayed under the door frame, at a careful distance. Watching how the air became heavier and everything turned opaque and dark despite the light coming in through the windows. How all the peace, calm, confidence, turned into sand that slipped through the fingers, forming a useless pile of fragility on the floor.

“Inhale.

Exhale.

Casual.”

There wasn’t much more to do.

“Good afternoon, Dad.”

How disgusting, the way Twilight could still naturally execute the pretended casualness, with which the bile rose through the esophagus up to her throat.

Yet Twilight smiled all the same, as she knew behind all the act stood an analytical look that turned her into crystal and left her with stiff muscles, with her blood exposed to nothingness, with the system on high alert. And to falter was not an option even if Twilight had to control the trembling of her arms, measure all of her actions, or listen to the cardiac rhythm galloping over her ears.

That’s how Twilight retraced her steps like a little rag doll that was forced to be polite, instead of entering the lion’s den to make coffee under false promises. The wood of the steps creaked in a way that reminded her of the first summer of lectures and complaints, instead of the serene afternoons of solitude and naps to catch up on sleep.

Did it matter? In the slightest.

Once again, she stood in the doorway of the study, where Velvet was indeed arranging papers. Twilight decided that if she knocked on the door, she would do so with more force than necessary. Screw manners, then.

“Why is dad here?” She hoped the animosity in her voice wasn’t that obvious, but it wasn’t even directed at him, as much as Twilight didn’t want to see him.

Even so, if her mother was bothered by it, she didn’t show it. She just turned to look at her as if it had been a question about the weather.

“Because he lives here, Twilight, why else?”

…What?

“You said only you and m–”

“You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to.” She shrugged, as if it was the obvious answer to a normal fight or something. “The house is big, we can talk wherever you feel more comfortable.”

Twilight stared at her for a moment, doing nothing but trying to find a logical explanation to what she was hearing.

“B-but you…” she started, barely audible. “You know about the restraining order I have against him, right?”

A very clear one that came at the beginning of August, where a distance perimeter of no less than five hundred meters was explicitly delimited. Not five, not ten. Five hundred.

She could simply not know, right? Sometimes important things slipped her mind (a birthday, for example) this could be one of them. Or maybe her father hid the notification from her, as illogical as that sounded. Or… or something like that, something could’ve happened, anything, and her mother never found out and that was it. Mystery solved, right?

Right?

“Yes, and it seems unnecessary to me.”

The world stopped for a moment.

Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) could do nothing but stay there, stay still, feeling everything crumble around her, while her vision blurred and she was forced to blink so that the shapes would make sense again.

“...What?”

With a sigh worthy of the beginning of a lecture, her mother closed the door and motioned for Twilight to take a seat in one of the chairs, then take the other and hold her hands. All with a gentleness that almost felt uncomfortable coming from her. Her mom wasn't treating her like she was going to break, but then again, such a good mood and understanding Twilight saw on her face now wasn't usual.

It wasn't usual not to see her mother for two months, either.

Perhaps something did change, as minimal as it was.

“Twilight, honey, I need you to be honest with me. Are you sure we're talking about your dad?” Maybe the world stopped entirely, this time. And Twilight felt her blood turn cold, the ringing in her ears raising in volume, the air burning her nostrils when she inhaled. “He hardly ever raised his voice at you. You're the girl of his eyes, for God's sake!”

Maybe it hadn’t been the world, per se. Maybe it was Twilight Sparkle who remained frozen, unable to say a word. Seeing her own reflection in the eyes of someone who was genuinely looking for answers.

Answers according to what she wanted to hear.

Twilight tried to articulate a word, to move her jaw slowly, to form a sentence, a word, something. She only managed shaky movements.

None of this made sense.

It couldn't make sense.

“But I… I’m not–” Sand that turned into a pile of useless fragility on the floor. Useless fragility, confidence undone, opaque colors and bewilderment. Bewilderment was the only thing she had left, that she could feel and squeeze between her fingers to control the trembling of her forearms. “I'm not making anything up.”

Twilight felt the bile at the base of her throat, stinging and threatening to burn her tongue. Her mother couldn't possibly think she was lying, could she? Twilight never lied except in situations where it was strictly necessary. Obvious exceptions to the rule. Little white lies, excuses.

Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) only wanted to sleep for more than eight hours at a time, with all the liberties that that implied. With the calm, the security, and the stability that it implied. No nutritionist, nor psychological evaluations, nor being treated with the care and fragility with which she held her newborn niece.

And she had the right to want something different, no? Was that really too much to ask?

The problem was that, in order to do it, she needed a restraining order, which required a report. And a report couldn't be made with evidence to support it.

A light breeze came in through the curtains, along with the singing of the birds and the gallop of the heartbeat in her ears.

Expectant silences were horrible.

And the expectant silences that involved her mother pondering what to say, made her organs twist and knot.

“Again, hon, I'm not saying you are. It's just…” Her mother sighed as if she was building the patience to explain something obvious. Something that Twilight, out of her own free will, didn't want to understand. As if the answer was up there in neon lights and she wasn't paying attention because she didn't feel like it. “Look, you need an adult to file a report, Twilight. And these kinds of family matters are settled in private. Why involve someone who barely knows you?”

It was a calm, slow, understanding tone of voice. Like she was explaining things o a child, or when Twilight asked for help solving a complex exercise.

Twilight felt the walls closing in on her, her hopes and opportunities crumbling with each word. Why would her mother say that? Did she really think she was stupid enough to believe a lie of this magnitude? And then what? That Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) submitted herself to the humiliation of physical exams for the sake of it? That she sat for hours recounting fictional events just because someone told her to?

It was bordering on cynicism already.

Seriously, how could she come up with something like tha–

Velvet, her mother, kept talking. She kept giving arguments as to why the situation was ruining the family. That they could lose their jobs, that rumors like this only ruin lives. They could lose absolutely everything they worked for their entire life, Twilight. So can you just shut your mouth and pretend nothing happened so I can finally meet my granddaughter, we all go back to the hypocrisy of loving each other, and you move back to the house and go back to the showers in the middle of the night with an empty stomach and impurities rotting her skin and--

“I’m leaving.” She was sure her voice trembled and Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) wasn't sure if it was from rage, anguish, bewilderment or all of them at once. “Good luck with your prizes, mom.”

Sparkle left the house of her own free will once, why not make it twice? Why not just never come back and have them all go to Hell?

She had the right to want something different, after all. No. Not want. Need. Sparkle needed something different. Something that didn't require to endure Hell for it.

Was it really so insolent?

Of course Velvet wouldn’ let her off the hook. Because deciding for herself didn't necessarily mean she was given permission to do so. And since when did her mother ever pay her enough attention?

As expected, as soon as she got up from her seat Velvet grabbed her arm in that uncomfortable and annoying grip, even though there were no bruises under the layers of cotton and acrylic.

"Twilight, calm down, take a seat, and we can discuss this like grown-ups." It was clear Velvet was making an effort to maintain the patience, one that Sparkle knew would run out at any moment.

"What is there to discuss if you made up your mind already?" Her own, too. Sparkle didn't agree to come back home (at first) nor did she come here for her mother to tell her this.

"I'm trying to find a solution for this mess that would benefit everyone. And you, out of everyone, should stop trying to throw a tantrum and be of help."

"A tantrum? Mom, I'm being serious.” For a moment, the idea of answering back with anger stopped being a simple wish to turn into a reality. "Can't you just listen to me once?"

At this point it was strange, since Twilight was used to biting her cheek and shut up, because a routine full of tensions meant one without the slightest break.

Velvet, snorted, seeming outraged.

"I want to, I really do. But it's impossible when you get like this."

"Ok. Then there's nothing to discuss here. You just don't give a crap about me.” She was shaking, the arm that held her in place was shaking, her vocal cords were shaking. Velvet wasn't interested in knowing the whys, and Twilight wanted each and every one of them explained one by one, instead of turned into the liquid falling down her cheeks.

"Oh for God's sake, Twilight! Can you stop being so dramatic?"

“Dramatic?” The conversation back in the car, the fact that they hadn't seen each other in the last two months, that one time she kicked her out of the study because emergencies, if not real, could wait until dinner. There was a scroll of situations to be written. "You couldn't even remember my freaking birthday!"

“I was at a conference in Germany, Twilight, what did you expect?”

THat was when Twilight SParkle understood that she was only part of the picture. Part of what was expected just to be able to say “I have two beautiful children with a good future”. It didn't matter what happened to her as long as everything seemed to go well, so gossip was kept away.

“I don't know, a text, maybe? Even dad sent me one, and he's not supposed to even do that!”

“Ah, didn't you have a restraining order, Twilight?”

Correction: Twilight Velvet only cared about understanding the whys of the parts she was interested in hearing, if she was interested in hearing them at all. Under her own conditions.

And the rest?

The rest didn't matter.

"What does that-- ugh! It's always like this! I try to tell you something and always always you dodge it or try to throw it back at me. This is why I don't want to live here anymore, you're insufferable!"

"And you think you're easy to deal with? All this happened because you think you're the center of the universe and we all have to bend to your will." Twilight felt that pain always mentioned in novels and movies go through her chest like, following the cliche, a damned dagger. "You're not the only one who's gone through things like this, Twilight. So you better shut your mouth, get back here and start studying to raise those disgusting grades you've been getting."

A dagger stabbed right at her front that twisted side to side to make sure it hurt, and the blood would pour so the expectations drained faster from her head.

The type that makes you see red from anger and not control the brutality of the words you spit out.

“I get why you don't like Celestia, now. She actually knows how to be a mother.”

Twilight's face ended up looking in the opposite direction in a matter of seconds. The heat on her left cheek didn't take long to appear.

Or course.

But it was the truth.

“If after everything that happened these past months, everything you did... you're going to insist so much on destroying this family, then you're no longer part of it.”

Instead of kicking her out, her mother turned around and left her alone in the study, with a slam to the door that made Twilight jump. But it somehow made her react to, in a stupid attempt, go after her and her strong, fast steps on the stairs. Twilight ended up five steps from the ground floor, on the last flight of stairs, watching her mother take the same keys she hanged minutes ago, while she put on the blazer from the coat rack in the entrance. Same actions in reverse, same feeling of frustration as that time when Twilight stopped at the door of the study.

“M–”

Same slam to the door as always. Same as the one from seconds ago, but that marked something different at the same time. Because even at this distance, Twilight was close enough to hear the keys operating in the entrance gate and, at the same time, far enough to be locked in when the metallic clink made its last turn.

Twilight stood there, feeling one side of her face burn as her throat closed up, taking deep breaths to control the pain bunching in her chest, so she could take the steps down, one by one.

“Inhale, exhale.

One. Two. Three.

Four. Five.”

When her sneakers hit the ground, Twilight forced herself to do so firmly, her gaze fixed on her backpack with all of her things. Things both new and old, where she had stored in her left pocket, the keys to where she was staying temporarily, although perhaps now that would change to something permanent, given the circumstances of what had just happened-

“Are you okay, Twilight?”

As expected, the world stopped. Only for a moment.

Or maybe, maybe, it was never a moment. Maybe the world never stopped spinning even for the smallest of moments, and it makes moving in the same direction, keeping up with it even though the thorns pierced and the body was torn to shreds, as now the priority was to keep going in despite of everything since her mother brought her here without asking and she was back in the lion's den–

“...Twi?”

“Inhale. Exhale. Casual.”

Twilight wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweater with more force than necessary and turned around.

Her father was there, looking alarmed, confused, and anything else that could be attributed to a consolation devoid of genuine concern, but that Sparkle really didn’t feel like analyzing at this moment. It wasn’t a priority.

The priority, right now, was that he was there, when he should have been five hundred meters away. Not five, not ten. Five hundred.

It would be so easy, so simple, to just go back to the previous mechanical movements, to give a shake of her head and listen to what she wanted, what she (maybe) needed right now. To Hell with the multiplying debts and the prices to pay later.

However, after two months, Twilight Sparkle knew that there were other things. That the real comfort was something completely different from the invention of the disguised moment. That real warmth existed.

That she didn't need any of this.

That she didn't have to come to this house, her pseudo home that appeared in dreams and woke her up with the horror of the belief that he still lived here, that he hadn't left. But did she have another option? Could she leave? It was as easy as turning around, grabbing her backpack and turning the knob, but the other set of keys weren't hanging there.

Twilight hadn't had the keys to this house on her for at least a month.

He was there, in front of her on a normal day, after a typical argument with her mother. And at the same time in circumstances that she didn't think they would ever meet again.

It was at that moment that Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) realized that the only thing she wanted, if such a moment ever came, was to see him burn.

Maybe he wanted the same for her. He had the right to be as angry as her to be annoying, right? Who knows. Sparkle preferred not to stay to find out.

But, again, such an act required tensing the muscles more than she was doing now, giving unfamiliar commands and doing the rebellious act of not following the norm in front of someone who could actually give her consequences.

And in those ironies of life (or maybe the bad luck always on her side), her father interrupted the static moment with a heavy sigh and a “Go wash your face while I get you some ice, okay?” with a kindness that made Twilight want to stick a thorn somewhere in her body and twist.

Instead, she forced herself to nod, taking the approximate ten steps to the toillette. Not before confirming that, indeed, her father kept his word.

Once in the safety of a private space, the first thing she did was splash cold water on her face, trying to recover from everything that had happened in the last hour. Once, twice, three times.

On the fourth she left her hands there, between swollen eyes and soaked cheeks and burning skin.

She needed her pillow. To suffocate in polyester fibers with twenty-five percent cotton, to scream until her lungs burned and her throat turned to shreds.

What had just happened?

Or rather, what hadn't happened, among all the things that did happen?

She always had fights with Velvet, fights that at some point turned into lectures because Twilight used her brilliant little brain to bite her cheek and shut her mouth. Because if not living together in peace ended up becoming a luxury. But from now on she wouldn't have to worry about any of that.

From now on she was alone, and she would have to take care of everything on her own. As always.

Or worse.

Much, much worse.

How beautiful, the sunny afternoons with pleasant weather and singing birds.

For the fifth and last time, Twilight doused her face with cold water again, hoping that something more than bacteria and tears would go down the drain.

The only thing left was the feeling of security along with the pretended casualness. Trying to fix whatever it was that broke, and leave the house through the front door without acting like an escape artist. At best, the door would be opened at will and everything would end like a happy family movie.

…Low-budget, cliché, and poorly acted, but what did illusions matter?

With a new idea in mind, Sparkle set in motion the collective obsession with fixing the small details. She made sure her sweater was properly placed on her shoulders, washed her contact lenses before putting them back in, combed her hair with a brush she found in the cabinet, taking the time to undo the braids, and even adjusted her shoelaces.

The only thing left that was swollen was her left cheek, looking a little redder than usual. If you ignored that detail, she now looked like a decent person.

Small changes, big impressions. Maybe it had to do with the details that made up the whole and not the whole itself.

“Inhale. Exhale. Casual."

She left the bathroom quietly, closing the door slowly as she analyzed where to go. The entrance was a resounding no. Sparkle didn't need to be a brilliant mind to understand that if her father offered her ice and not the front door, it was for a reason. She could be anything but stupid.

That's how she ended up in the lion's den. The only place she didn't want to go, yet the only place from which signs of movement came through the noise of ceramics and the aroma of coffee.

The kitchen was exactly the same as the last time, with the same breakfast table in the center and the same wooden cupboards with mahogany varnish. Same natural light filtering through linen curtains, same annual school photos of both her and her brother. Photos that Sparkle sometimes stared at, trying to find between immaculate uniforms and typical smiles, when was the moment things lost their way and went completely off the rails. How did they get to this point, from a normal childhood to this? To random nights spent on her bed of thorns. To late night showers and step counting. To leave her own house and realizing she didn’t want to go back. To end up in the very same kitchen, two months later, doing her best to keep her composure.

The papers and the laptop were now arranged in a pile at the other end of the table, not far from the cooling gel wrapped in a cloth, strategically placed, as if her father knew she didn’t want physical contact. Sparkle placed it on her cheek, hating the sensation. Better the lesser evil fast than a day and a half mark.

Sparkle took a seat at the head of the table, opposite where her father usually sat. It wasn’t a great distance, but in this space, a hundred and forty centimeters helped a lot. Plus there was something behind the psychology of seating choices that Sparkle once read somewhere but now couldn’t remember.

Without a word her father placed a generic white ceramic cup in front of her. Not with coffee, but with tea.

Vanilla and cinnamon tea.

Sparkle looked from the steaming cup to her father, trying not to seem too confused as she murmured a thank you, just out of politeness. He dismissed it with a calm gesture, and sat down to her right, setting his coffee down on the table as well.

Well, sometimes Sparkle missed the fact that no one really cared about her personal space.

Was he expecting them to have one of those typical conversations where Twilight went down for coffee at six in the evening and the topics were the most superficial? Yeah, right. Sparkle could be many things and innocent, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

It was unfortunate, yes, because now all she could do was keep her senses alert for the slightest gesture, pay attention to the tickling in her body, the bile at the beginning of her throat, the gallop of the heart rate on the eardrums.

Without taking into account her debts.

She was not going to get out of this. At least, not as she expected.

She better mentally prepare herself. How? She hadn't the slightest idea, she'd have to improvise. And if there was one thing Twilight Sparkle (for the life of her) could admit she wasn't good at, it was at the art of improvisation.

To Hell with it.

Sparkle didn't say a word, concentrating on the cold on her left cheek.

Two seconds. A car could be heard passing by on the street.

Ten seconds. Everything returned to its extreme, unreliable calm.

"I'm sorry about what your mom just did, Twi," he said at last, with the usual regret. Because this was a typical conversation, too, just like any other evening. "Only God knows how many times we've had this conversation."

The first truth in all day, since, really, only God knew. Not like talking ever solved anything. Twilight just learned to bite her tongue and ignore the point of the lectures, or else these things happened. So her father's speech repeated itself like a broken record. That even though it wasn't right, they had talked about it, that she had to understand that her mother was stressed (as always) with work, that it didn't mean her mother didn't love her and all that blah, blah, blah, that couldn't be more irrelevant at the moment.

But it never came.

Sparkle decided to take a sip of her tea, to dull the feeling of the bile dancing on her tongue. Plus it was her favorite tea for a reason, prepared with a teaspoon of honey, the right balance between sweet and sugary and, despite the extra calories, healthier.

It also gave her time to think, so the sooner this conversation ended the sooner she could leave.

Twilight tried to remember if she ever read anything about it, or if it was mentioned to her, or if it appeared in the stack of pamphlets she once held in her hands. Or if she heard something similar at a group meeting, even if she only sat there with tea and tried to think about something else.

And so she was back to square one: nothing.

Improvising it is.

Maybe, perhaps, at best, she could start with the most obvious and stupid thing that crossed her mind.

“I thought you’d be angry with me,” she muttered, because she had nothing left to lose, because the expectant silences with her parents were the most unsettling and because overthinking was one hundred percent free. But, it made sense, and at the same time it didn’t. Why make her her favorite tea, then?

Night Light looked at her somewhat confused for a second, then let out a sigh that wasn’t very heavy, but couldn’t be called light either… normal? Calm? Unmoved?

“I think your mother reacted enough for the both of us.” At that, Sparkle wished she was three meters underground, chewing ten of those cheap toothpaste-flavored gums. What was worse? The affirmative answer or the ambiguity? “And you know well I really can’t be angry at you.”

Well, then five gums would be fine. Or eucalyptus gummies.

It made sense, sort of, as the times her father got angry at Twilight, it never escalated to the typical prohibition of something as punishment and some screams to demand for respect as the head of the family. Twilight learned to shut up at the right time, unlike her brother. Hence the origin of all her fears.

“But I don't know if that question should be directed at me.” Twilight? Angry? No, no, she just got bored of the hellish routine of life that meant living under this roof. “I understand that you were distant, and I thought you had gone to your brother's for a few days. No... not this.”

It's not that Sparkle didn't miss her things here, or some of the methods adopted for the damned routine, but she needed something else. Being able to sleep without interruptions was on top of the list.

“I'm sorry, really.” According to everyone, she had nothing to apologize for things that weren't her responsibility. And while Velvet had a tendency to exaggerate this just to make her feel bad, maybe Twilight didn't feel like ruining her parents lives. “I'm not angry. It's not about that.”

“And what is it about, then?”

It was a serious question, as Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) wasn't like that, never had been. But there was nothing wrong with changing, with not wanting to maintain a status quo, or to preserve radiant tens, or to maintain a certain aesthetic. With not having to measure movements, or limited responses, or having to be aware of everything at all times and in all aspects of her life.

There was nothing wrong with wanting to change, or do different things, or break out of the routine, or even having uneven feelings.

At the same time, no matter how genuine his interest seemed, Sparkle felt like throwing everything away.

What did he mean, why?

How dare he?

Sparkle had a whole list of reasons in sloppy, hurried handwriting, jotted down on a paper sheet of a torn notebook, as if it were the paper of fourteen folds. The main reason was there, first on the list, underlined with fury and so many colored inks that it tore a hole in the paper.

He knew the reasons. He was responsible for every damn answer to every damn question.

"Inhale. Exhale.

Firm.

Firm, firm, firm, firm, fir–"

"There are a… lot of things." Sparkle could’ve said it to his face, the answer stinging on the tip of her tongue. What everyone knew, what she knew, and what he, above all, knew well. What no one dared to say, and that had no point in being explained. "You probably know most of them."

"Perhaps." At that, Sparkle took a sip of tea to keep herself from grimacing. Playing dumb was useless. They both knew that he was the source of many (saying 'all' would be inaccurate) of the ills that plagued this family. “But you should've told us, we could've arranged something. Like staying at your brother's and maybe visiting on the weekends or something.”

Sparkle had to think about it, for a second. Going back to the times when she thought about that possibility.

Would it be enough?

No.

The answer was simply no.

Because Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) realized, at that very moment, that she wasn’t going to settle for leaving five days a week. Otherwise, there would be no way to truly escape the routine. Sooner or later they would come up with an excuse for her to stay longer at this house, or to leave the majority of her things, or even that she was going to bother the baby and she had a room here and no need to babysitter and no, Twilight, you'll stay here and that's it. Stop it with the tantrums.

Again, it seemed that she was transparent in her gestures, because Night Light kept trying despite her silence.

“What I mean is that all this seems a bit excessive to me, and unfair to Celestia, even. The last thing I want is for her to think that we are imposing on her hospitality.”

Without saying anything, Twilight placed the cloth with gel on the table, next to the tea. Fixing her gaze on the cup and rubbing the handle of it with her thumb.

If it’s the only way you'll leave me alone…

Was it really the only way, though?

It didn't have to do with Twilight not loving her family, as she found herself missing them, sometimes. Just like her friends openly talked about their family, typical complaints about restrictions, or siblings being siblings. Normal things, superficial things of normal teenagers, with normal lives and normal problems. Even Sunset, who for some reason lived on her own and seemed to have most things figured out, never said anything out of the ordinary. Even the Other Twilight, her doppelganger, whose everyday tellings would put her in a mental hospital to normal ears, when she showed up she seemed like just another teenager. She didn't mention her family much either, but no one asked either and it's not like she counted.

Twilight Sparkle, the one who came from these lands, was treated like that too. No one asked about the absence of her parents at her birthday or anything but, God, it was obvious that everyone suspected when they didn't show up, and that she was living at the school principal's house, to top it all off.

Discretion didn't make any less awful (or embarrassing) the fact that she couldn't act the same way, that she couldn't have those kinds of worries.

That was the supposed reason for all this, just to have a restraining order and leave things be, even if such a report couldn't be made without evidence to support it.

“Whatever you decide is going to be fine, Twi. Our priority is that you're okay. And considering that you look much better than the last time I saw you..." he let out a heavy sigh. "Maybe it's up to us to think about some things."

Huh?

What?

Was he giving her the free pass?

Did he just say she looked better? Better, as in healthier?

Was he admitting that, yes, maybe they had to consider some things and seek some sort of arrangement? They, plural?

No. Impossible. It couldn't be.

Or could it?

Or not?

Or could it?

What the hell did he just say?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, in a much more relaxed manner and with a slight smile. Maybe because of Sparkle's stupefied expression. And for a moment this seemed like a normal evening, asking for normal advice, those where he acted like a parent that came out of a film. As it should be, actually. "Your old man sometimes has the power of reflection, you know?"

Sparkle to a drink of her tea to not bite her tongue and swallow the possible sarcastic comment.

It could be true that his intentions were real. As Sparkle knew that he was willing to listen to everything she’d have to say, that he wasn't going to ignore her. That he would act like a father that came out of a film, unnecessary examples to express clear ideas and cliché phrases included. He was always interested in knowing the whys, and sometimes he had even taken sides in her favor, beyond the fact that all of that came with a price.

But now Twilight had debts. Too many.

She was going to have to confront them and pay them one by one, wasn't she?

“Inhale. Exhale. Casual.”

“So, you'll convince Mom?”

There was a reason for everything.

Besides, Sparkle could be many things, but stupid and, above all, innocent, were two definitions that didn’t fit her. So much trial and error over the years, of trusting and telling herself “what’s the point?” Because if there are things that are going to happen despite your efforts, then it’s best to make the most of the situation.

That’s how things worked.

So, when she felt that little emotional squeeze from hell burn her wrist, she did nothing but breathe in air as slowly as she could and try to swallow the bile that rose in her throat. Or maybe it was something more than that, but stomach acids dancing on her tongue anyway. It felt like her ribs were squeezing her lungs, and her heart began to pound as if pumping blood would help her keep her distance.

“I can't promise anything, but I can always try.” Again, that movie dad smile, to keep pretending that they were in a scene where what she asked for was something typically superfluous of a teenager trying to find her place in the world.

And a part of Sparkle wanted to trust that it existed. That people change, that two months could serve as a reflection on all those things that happened and that perhaps the intention to change was real, that if he was willing to be better–

Why was she so worried that her wrist wouldn't give away her heartbeat? Of showing herself whole, firm, even if her lungs were burning inside?

Twilight didn't need the answer, because the memory, the reason, was always there, in the darkest and most hidden part of her subconscious. Ready to come out at any moment. After all, two months meant nothing compared to years of misfortune.

Hence, perhaps, the effort to maintain an invisible dignity.

The fire is aware of the damage it causes, after all.

Though Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) was no longer sure if such a notion held any weight in the conscience.

“So… you don’t mind if I go upstairs to get some things, do you?” she asked, her gaze falling on the generic, boring white mug, half-full of tea, next to the cloth with cooling gel that had turned into a damp, slumpy thing. When had she started twisting the end of the cloth?

No, no. Priorities. She had a chance to stop being paralyzed.

“Of course not, Twi.” Sparkle tried not to look desperate to get up, or to let out the breath she had just realized was holding in her lungs. “Let me know if you need a hand.”

“Uh-huh,” she made an effort to sound normal, to sound like teenagers are supposed to sound when using pretended casualness.

She climbed the stairs again, careful not to let the heaviness of her steps be the same as before. To denote confidence, which was important for moments like this, where she had to show herself whole.

Same route as before. Same hallway. Same seven steps to get to the second door on the right.

The third hinge on her bedroom door still made a squeaking noise, as its lack of maintenance was still intentional.

And while Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) had such a sound burned into her head due to its great utility, it never ceased to be a warning sign. A check-in and check-out of her own room. An invitation for the uncomfortable tingle to travel up her spine to her nerve endings, ending with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Inhale, exhale.

Just take your things and leave."

As she opened the door, Sparkle had no idea what to expect. An empty room, perhaps? Or boxes storing her things, or obvious missing items that had gone to a church as a donation. But to her (real) surprise, everything was exactly in its place. Neat and tidy, not even dust. The desk destined for immaculate order with its digital clock on top, her closet, her nightstand, books arranged by theme, size and alphanumeric order at the same time, the calendar on the wall stopped at July, just above her bed–

Everything in its place like she never left this house.

Maybe they did miss her.

Sparkle took a breath to get to work, leaving aside the imaginary bad omens, the speculations and giving priority to what she came to do: take her things.

Where to start? Priorities, priorities, priorities...

Wardrobe? Wardrobe.

Following the pattern of treating her with fragility, Twilight was taken to clothing stores as if she were a little girl. Something about her wardrobe selection being very small and also, why not, changing the style a little. Sparkle wasn’t one to pay much attention to clothes, per se. Especially when it depended on what Velvet allowed her to choose from the options she provided. Therefore, she limited herself to the most classic (and boring, perhaps) options. She spent half her life in a school uniform, so choosing what to wear everyday wasn't relevant until a few months ago.

Like everything in these four walls, her clothes were in organizers by size, color and category, most neutral colors with some specks of blue or magenta, as they matched her hair and all those things that should be taken into account to look put together. She put aside two or three trousers, some t-shirts and a few mid-season sweaters. Extra clothes with versibility in combinations, just like all the videos on how to pack suitcases for long vacations instructed.

The sheets, even if they were impeccably stored in the closet and were made of a hundred cotton threads, Sparkle decided were a definite no-no. While it was pointless to assign blame to inanimate objects, she couldn't really say yes to them, nor take them. Moths don't carry mothballs with them, the survival instinct remains even if you're a bug with a brain smaller than a pinhead.

There was the bedding, that is, the old t-shirts she wore as pajamas sometimes, and the real pajamas made of cotton fibers that she wore, sometimes, when the moment called for it–

She closed the drawer with a sharp push, and with a twist of the doors the wardrobe was closed as well.

Twilight took her time, sitting on the floor with a medium-sized duffel bag she found in the closet and her selected clothes, to start folding in one of the best storage methods she could find.

Folding in two or three parts, and then in halves or thirds. Simple, practical, and easy to follow. Meanwhile, she tried to inhale and exhale deeply so as not to lose focus, not to be at the mercy of memories that would only make her make more mistakes.

Once everything was arranged inside the bag, she moved on to the second most important thing: books.

Twilight had some already saved, they were always included in the part of the plan where she left some things in her locker at school to have them at hand. But there was never too much, so he took a novel or two, Basic Concepts of Sociology, third and fourth editions of Maths by Tapia to add to the first two, and one or two books on astronomy and constellations.

There was also her telescope, a Skywatcher Astrolux reflector type, with a seventy-six millimeter aperture. Ideal for viewing the planets and celestial bodies, which was gifted at her ninth birthday when it became clear to her parents that a simple pair of long-range binoculars wouldn't suffice her curiosity. She remembered how excited she was for the night to come, and then having to wait in complete darkness with a makeshift red light, her dad helping her to calibrate it and set everything in place to observe the stars for hours.

Twilight continued to do so, after the thorns disturbed her sleep, or she simply couldn't close her eyes. She always slipped away with a blanket, a pillow, and her constellation book to watch the stars until the tiredness forced her to make into a ball and sleep, waking up with the first rays of the sun to stealthily return to her room and pretend she had never moved in the first place.

Yes. She’ll take it. It was hers and it made her feel something like happiness, besides, it wasn't as heavy as it looked.

The only thing left was her bed.

No. From the beginning she never thought about taking furniture. It's just that sometimes she missed her bed, her viscose pillow for the spine, the sheets with 180 percent cotton fibers that were soft and warm. Or the many hiding places in her room, or spending the evening watching documentaries, or reading a novel, or doing research.

Sparkle missed her bed and its sommier confort, but it was her bed of thorns, too.

The idea, the simple memory of what it meant turned her stomach and made her physically gag.

Still, with trembling hands, she pulled the pillow out of its case. Furniture couldn't be blamed for the actions of others.

Because the thorns were never something exclusive to the bed. Nor was the bed made of them, no matter how much Sparkle wanted to believe otherwise. They never grew there, but on her own skin. They had taken their roots there, on her tissue, and from there the origin of the impurities.

From there came the origin of all evils. Like Pandora.

The thorns were real. Real, flexible and endless, coiling around her body, twisting around her chest and not letting her breathe, dragging themselves hard and leaving thin red lines behind them or even stabbing her body and piercing her organs and–

Twilight could only squeeze her eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the kind of tears she hadn’t shed in a long time, the kind of catharsis in the middle of the night and screams contained in pillows.

Because it hurt. It really hurt. In every sense and every applicable metaphor.

The din of the little creak of the wood, which seemed to rumble in her ears from the beginning of the corridor, from the beginning of the stairs.

Her heart rate increased in alert. All that was left was to count.

…Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eigh--

There was no eighth step.

The world stopped.

It stopped with two firm knocks, like someone asking permission before opening the door.

When was the last time that happened? That someone knocked on the door before entering her room, in this house? Her brother, for sure. Shining was always cautious and polite in that sense.

Well, sometimes her father knocked on the door too. Times that could be counted with the fingers of a single hand, but times nonetheless.

Twilight didn't know how to respond when the third hinge on the door produced a squeak, its null maintenance still intentional despite the years and promises to fix it.

"Everything okay?" Night Light asked from the threshold of the door, without opening it all the way. His hand still on the handle, as if ready to turn around if Twilight asked him to.

Was this still part of the movie act? Maybe it was.

Or maybe these two months were a point of reflection. Maybe he wasn't lying when he said they had to think about some things. Maybe they missed her as much as she missed them, with the same gratitude for the peace of mind but feeling odd at the emptiness. That's why her mother was so angry for not giving them a second chance.

She didn't know what to think anymore.

Twilight just nodded at the question, breathing in and out in the worst way, the most obvious way, the one that showed that she had nothing left. Nothing to gain or lose, and much less to pretend. Because her dad was there, three steps away and it was inevitable not to think about all the things that happened. How the nights of bedtime stories turned into thorns. How they went from family dinners to arguments with her brother and constant tensions. All those things that she stayed away from for two months and to which she returned fully now.

But the tears fell despite her efforts to hold them back, and she could do nothing but wipe them away with the sleeves of her sweater, feeling heat again on her left cheek.

Twilight heard the words, the usual question if she was okay, if something happened, and she didn’t know whether to twist her skin hard or scream, burn her lungs at the cynicism of such a question. She shook her head, wiping away more tears. What could she say?

Suddenly, Sparkle felt fire.

It felt strange because the flames weren't melting her organs or turning her bones into fiery embers. It was external, from the air around her. It climbed from the base of the spine to the back of her neck, to her hair way-too-thin and way-too-soft but still way too detestable. It scorched her skin, wrapped her torso with such heat that it made her hair stand on end from the chills.

It was fire, yes, and at the same time it felt like simple warmth, comfort. The kind that surrounds with kind arms, that comes from affection. The kind that sometimes gave her security, beyond the discomfort of physical contact.

It was enough to make Twilight Sparkle break.

Contradictory? Probably. Hypocritical? Sure.

After all, innocence was something she didn't possess. Dignity, either. There was nothing to lose, already inside a house she didn't want to come to, after her mother abandoned her with someone she didn't want to see, looking for her things in a room she left on her own account.

Contradictory, yes. But it seemed that every choice she made was wrong.

She knew that her father's intentions, at this moment, were real. That he was willing to listen to her, that he wasn't going to ignore her and that he would act like in a movie. Cliché phrases included.

However, Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) was aware that everything came with a price. One she would have to face sooner or later, especially because of the number of times she thought 'what's the point?’ In which she decided to give the benefit of the doubt and trust.

Perhaps it was that very same thing disguising itself as good intentions. Intentions of help, of worry, and understanding. Of gentle strokes in the hair and empty apologies that Twilight no longer knew who they came from. It could all be a lie.

It was, to a degree. They wouldn't be here, now, in this situation if it wasn't

That's why Twilight didn't return the hug, nor did she try anything to get away when she felt a kiss at the top of her head.

Maybe she didn't want to, deep down.

Maybe comfort was what she needed, right now.

Wasn’t this a father’s real job, after all?

What's the point, then?

“Are you sure you don't want me to call you an Uber? I'll drive you, but the car's at the mechanic.”

“I'm fine.” Twilight barely knew what she was doing. “It’s not as heavy as it looks.”

She knew she hung the bag over her shoulder to prove her point. It had its weight, sure, but it was manageable.

There were worse things.

She didn't have a clue of what time it was, temporalities lost the moment she stepped into the house. That it was way more than expected, for sure. It had been months since the last time she wore a watch, and her phone was somewhere in her backpack, on Silent.

It felt like she was floating inside her head. Thoughts that drifted away the second they became coherent. Numbness crawling across her skin, the low but constant ringing in her ears.

Improvising was never Twilight’s strong suit, and that's why she ended up losing most of the time these things happened. Not like she was ever meant to win anything, anyway.

There are worse things.

There was an exchange of greetings. Something like a 'take care' and an 'I love you', and she had no idea who said what or in what order. It didn't matter.

They were standing in front of the front gate.

The fire surrounded her for a moment, fondly, knowing it was a goodbye. Twilight let the flames scorch her skin once more, willingly, as she had willingly let many other things happen. She wasn't meant to win.

It was a goodbye, after all.

The keys turned, a metallic and plastic clink at the same time.

One step.

Two steps.

A friendly wave.

The sound of the lock, again.

And Twilight Sparkle (as a whole) was free. Free at last.

Free of debts, free of her family, free of the house she lived in for at least five years of her life, free of her mother.

Twilight started walking towards the avenue with the intention of taking the bus. Yet for some reason she collapsed against the neighbor's brick wall when she reached the corner of the block.

Freedom with no waving flag, no music that made the eyes overflow with emotions, no confetti, no clapping, not even company. Only the tiles of the sidewalk, brick against her back, and the inconvenience of a backpack and two extra bags.

Maybe it weighed more than she thought.

Maybe it was the weight she felt in her stomach. The sickness of it. Lead sipping through her organs and turning everything dark and rotten between. The thorns have stabbed her insides to give room for the roots to sink deeper, taking over her bones. Turning them on fire and burning them until they broke at the touch.

Ashes. That's what she was made of, now.

And Twilight was carrying her body in her bags.

Author's Note

...And it only took me 6 years...

Special thanks to Tamiyaguy for supporting my insufferableness.

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