I walk into her bedroom.
She's been crying.
I can see it.
I hate it.
I hate seeing her cry.
I've never seen her cry like this before.
When she sees me, she looks at me in terror.
But something else is in her eyes too.
I can't tell what it is.
I see the tears.
In her eyes and on her bed.
On her fur.
I hug her.
I hold her tight and don't plan to let go.
I tell her she'll be okay.
She says she's fine.
I know she's lying.
She knows I know.
I know she knows I know.
I see faint scars on her forelegs.
How have I never seen these before?
I hug her tighter.
She starts crying again.
She asks if I know my hug makes her happy.
She asks if I know how much she loves me for helping her.
She flinches.
She didn't mean to say it aloud.
I tell her I do.
I love her too.
I tell her that.
I kiss her head and her eyes.
I take her tears away.
She grabs onto me and hugs tighter.
She cries into me.
I don't mind.
I love her.
I stroke her head.
I love her.
She loves me.
Her eyes shine with happiness.
Her mane bounces back up.
I grin.
The grey fades from her now-pink coat.
I look at her.
She beams back at me.
She looks beautiful.
She looks happy.
She's vulnerable.
I love her.
She's fine.
She's really fine.
No.
She will be fine.
There's still a journey yet.
She's my Super Duper Party Pony.
She's my Pinkie Pie.
She's my light.
She helps me when I need it.
She always has.
Her face shines with pure joy.
She tells me I'm perfect.
I tell her she's perfect.
She starts crying again, happy tears this time.
She asks herself how I love her.
How she's perfect.
I tell her it's because of how genuine she is.
How she loves smiles and laughter.
How they make her entire week.
It's true.
It's who she is.
She looks at her scars.
She tells me she'll never hurt herself again.
I kiss her head again.
I love her for her.
She says she's not merely fine.
I giggle.
I taught her that.
She tells me she feels splendiferously magnificently wondrously insanely perfect.
She says that's what I am.
I laugh and blush lightly.
She's looking better now.
She's grinning.
She says she'll throw a party.
Just for the two of us.
And I hold her as she holds me.
Fine.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Why would anything be wrong?
I’m not fine.
But they can’t know that.
And they can’t know that.
Most importantly, she can’t know that.
She with the glitter smile and eyes like cupcakes.
She with the lavender coat that shimmers in the sun.
She the scientific genius and magical prodigy.
No.
She can never know.
She can never know how I feel.
She will never know I love her.
She will never know how I cry myself to sleep each night.
I’m lonely.
Ponies think I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
I’m not sad because of her.
She makes me happy.
Thinking about her makes me happy.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Why do I cry every night?
Ponies.
My entire life is laughter.
I make ponies happy.
But they can’t help me.
How could they?
I don’t let them see that they hurt me.
They dismiss me.
I love them.
They make me sad.
They love my parties.
They love me.
They never spend time with me.
I want to be alone with them sometimes.
Just me and a friend.
Or somepony more than a friend.
Balloons and bubbles and cake and sprinkles.
My life.
But my sadness.
It bubbles and bubbles and bubbles and boils over.
And I cry.
But they can’t know.
They can’t know.
She can’t know.
She walks in the door.
I’m panicking.
Tears on my coat and bed and in my eyes.
She can see them.
She hugs me.
She tells me I’ll be okay.
I won’t be okay.
I’ll be okay.
She says I’m lying.
I’m lying.
I won’t be okay.
We know it.
She knows it.
We both know the other knows.
I used to cut myself.
With knives.
I’ve dreamed of a noose.
I cry again.
Does she know her hug makes me happy?
Does she have any idea how much I love her for this?
I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
She says she does.
She says she loves me too.
She kisses the top of my head.
She kisses my tears away.
I hold her tighter and cry into her coat.
She doesn’t mind.
She’s too kind.
She strokes my head.
I love her.
I love her.
She loves me.
She loves me!
My mane bounces up.
My coat loses the grey.
I look at her face.
She smiles at me.
My world lights up.
I giggle.
I grin back.
I’m fine.
And I’m really fine.
I’m better than fine.
I love her.
I’m Pinkie Pie.
I’m the Super Duper Party Pony.
But her?
Twilight is the light that pulls me from the dark.
I’m not fine.
I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
I’m not just fine.
I’m perfect.
She’s perfect.
I tell her that.
She tells me I’m perfect.
I start crying again.
How could she love me?
How am I perfect?
She says it’s how genuine I am.
How I love seeing smiles and laughter.
It’s true.
It’s who I am.
She loves me for me.
Even when I’m sad.
I won’t hurt myself.
She would hate me if I hurt myself again.
I won’t hurt myself.
I love her.
I’m not merely fine.
She giggles when I say that.
I learned it from her.
I’m splendiferously magnificently wondrously insanely perfect.
Just like her.
My life looks better.
I look like a wreck.
But inside I’m grinning.
I’m beaming outside, too.
I think I’ll throw a party.
Just for the two of us.
And then she’ll hold me and I’ll hold her.
And everything will be okay.
I’m happy.
For the first time in my life, I am truly happy.