Two – a number so frequently wrung out that it’s seen and passed over. It’s used, but only to get a job done; never really taken into much consideration. But the lovers of the world come in twos. Matinee is at two o’clock. There are two other ways to say “two,” too. And with two, our tale begins.

She was a small girl with big dreams. Her eyes would light up when an idea came her way; she would stand transfixed, staring so intently at anything that sparked her mind as though if she turned away, the marvel would be lost forever. She frolicked with the clouds and the sun and the rain – never reaching the ground but trying to pull away to the sky. She was born to stand out like a balloon floating gently in the breeze – almost within reach but not quite. She saw each moment as an opportunity to do something else, to change the course of life, and would so spontaneously fly away that if you didn’t watch carefully, you’d lose sight of her. She was lost in the purity and naivety of childhood. But with all the diversity in the life, something was always the same. She was “fine.”

He was quiet and reserved. A thrill seeker. A shade on the wall. He was up for anything, anytime, anywhere. He watched the world around him for a way to try to show a contrast between what life is and what life can be. A personification of going along with doubts. The hopelessness of hope. He feared death, but embraced the concept like a child clinging to his mother. Sometimes it was as though he wasn’t there at all; like a specter moving from one plane to the next. You never knew when he’d show up again and when he did, you never knew where he’d come from. He had grown up too soon, too fast, but longed to find the joy in innocence again. As silent as a shadow, he would enter this reality, only to be pulled back into the nightmare he’d created for himself.

They were friends.

They were the type of friends that hung out never really knowing who the other was, but having fun just the same. What they did learn about each other, they read from random posts from Internet journals. She was addicted to his sense of philosophy; the core of his soul that he had so eloquently laid down in text who never thought that he was important enough to have readers or followers. He was amazed by the simplistic optimism she would speak of, even after the days in which her life was shaken and smashed by tangible figures that just didn’t seem to care. She hid her sadness. He hid his emotions. They both felt each other’s whims and ardor so naturally, that they didn’t find the need to really talk to the other – each felt rather than spoke. Each held the other’s heart instead of their hand. They were two of a kind, separated by the common ground of hiding behind their twin masks. They were bound by secrecy and left to dry like their faces when they were alone. Sometimes she wanted to blend in. Sometimes he wanted to stand out. And during the moments of silence that passed between the two, they couldn’t help but feel understood.