Sort of based off of Sakura, from Naruto, but not really. Only the pink hair part.An epiphany of sorts.

She sits quietly.

The sunlight pours in, but does not penetrate. It is a milky cloth laid over her brow; she does not blink, and only the slight rise of her chest as she breathes indicates she is alive. Blue are the shadows in the room; white is the sunlight that streams through. She is no color at all; cannot be defined by hues or words.

A painter could not paint her; no Mona Lisa smile on her face, no expression at all. She may have been nothing, had she not been something.

Oh, but she is something.

She is something beyond the world, beyond the universe; she gazes at nothing, sees infinitely more than ever was seen.

The curve of her lips is bleak and bright, hard and light. She does not smile, does not frown, but she does feel. On the walls are nothing, in the room is nothing but a chair, the one in which she sits with perfect rigidity, hands folded in her lap, the hands of a doll. She is not lonely, though, because she can never be lonely. She is never alone, for she is her own companion, the only companion she shall ever need or want.

She could be a statue, crafted out of marble, her hair tinged pink with the work and sweat of a mason; but she is not a statue. For she breathes and thinks to herself in fuzzy thoughts and indistinguishable notions, and her hair is pink only because God made her that way. The door to the room is open and the footsteps leading to it are soft.

She does not hear them, but she does listen to them.

The eyes that peer into the still, shifting room are nameless, colorless. She does not see them, but she does understand them. They are curious of her.

Why is she here? Who is she?

She would answer them, if she could. She can't, for she does not know the answers.

She only sits and stares, wobbles on the fine line between smiling and frowning, in that perfect center of nothingness. She feels she is going to crack soon, but knows that if she were to crack, the entire world would break; the entire universe would shake because of her.

So she cannot and must not crack, cannot let the world break or the universe shake. The heavy, bristled yoke balances on her shoulders, quivers slightly in the morning light. Let the eyes stare, for she does not care. Only, she wonders the same questions that those eyes wonder. Faintly wishes she could be the eyes staring in, not the eyes that see nothing and everything all at once.

She feels the eyes looking, thinking to themselves, who is she? Why does she sit?

She could ask the eyes the same questions. Who are the eyes? Why do they look?

But she cannot speak, for if she does she will break the tranquility, snap the thread and that would be bad, horribly bad. A terrible thought.

She erases it quickly. But it comes back again, like a wave of water, retreating, coming back, retreating, coming back…

She cannot stop it from coming back, and this puzzles her. This has never happened before. She must stop this thought; a dangerous thought indeed, cannot let it bother her. Questions are dangerous, for they undermine the foundations of the mightiest of empires, crack by crack, so finely.

But why does she sit here? Why do the eyes look?

She blinks.

The light is suddenly too bright in her eyes, burns pink and white through her eyelids, the color of azaleas. Strange. It was never like this before; always the light was cool and soothing and nothing.

Her nose itches.

This is strange, too. Her nose has never itched before. And yet the sensation is undeniable and irresistible, and the dust tickles so articulately and in all the right places that soon enough she feels she will sneeze—

She blinks harder and tries to keep the itch from spreading. She must not sneeze, for it will disturb the peace, will crack this thing she has for so long kept, and—

She sneezes.

Exhilarating, is all she can think. She is startled by the thought, startled by it even more than by the questions. She feels the eyes still looking in and she suddenly feels warmth in her cheeks, a tinge of infant pink.

She is blushing.

Without thought she brings her hand up to her cheeks to feel the unfamiliar warmth, and then realizes, surprised, that her hands are no longer folded together in her lap, the way they should be.

The curve of her lips is no longer bleak and bright, hard and light. The curve of her lips is soft and full.

She is smiling.

Who is she?

She is who she chooses.

Why does she sit here?

She sits because she chooses.

And now she chooses to stand.

She stands and her dress trails on the ground like a comet tail; and as she glides across the floor, the eyes turn away, and the footsteps leading away from the door are soft and muted. She follows after them, because she knows she can answer their questions now.

She steps outside of the room and closes the door behind her.

Strange, isn't it? I should have warned you.