For all her faults, she could have never been called Vague. She used to be a Wordy girl, with a mind full of Clutter and a heart full of hope. It wasn't clear though, if she had changed almost completely or not at all. For her heart's hope had dulled a little, and though it was in the process of recovery, her mind remained still cluttered-but more streamlined, linear and had some sort of order like a cube with things inside it, no longer round like a drum filled with floating odds and ends, but then her words she seemed to have lost. He left her, and suddenly she was mute, immobile even, for a little while. Explaining even the simplest of things now was a challenge. Had she grown dim? Had she hit her head and lost her control of language, lost that innate eloquence she once thought was her birthright? Was it that one instance of heartbreak had rendered her speechless, that a little pain had thrown her into silence? Or could it be that when he left, he took all her words with him?
Somebody said that when her heart broke, her words flowed out with her tears and evaporated into the air. Another person claimed that though he left no visible wounds and bruises on her, he had injured her more than anyone could see. She did not bother to think about it; she had no words with which to ponder the matter. And one wise man gave the answer no one else dared to say: she loved two things in the world more than she let on—words and him—and when he went away, he took her love with him. That is why the words won't come. Love was gone, and she had gone Vague.