Resting in her delicate hands is a little paper heart, creased tight with faded blue lines with one single word scrawled in her chicken-scratch. She reads over that word and gives an incognizant frown. There is a silence in her heavy chest; that fragile things beats no longer, feels no more. Her empty chest rises and falls with a deep breath and she folds up that paper and tucks it into her shirt pocket, pressing it close to her mute chest.
She blinks slowly, but there is nothing to see.
She wants to say so much, but no sound comes from her throat and she is voiceless. But she muses that there is not a point in talking when one has no clever words and there is not a point in talking when one has nothing intersting to say regardless. And after all, there is no one to talk to.
She listens, though.
And she hears so much. She hears them all and hears all their problems and wants to badly to console them or to laugh with them. But they don't listen to her. They can't hear her and she is done talking to the birds; they don't like her eerie aura. They always leave too.
She is done feeling sad. And yet she feels so loney and she wonders how that can be when her heart is still and no emotion lingers.
And yet she yearns.
Written on that little paper heart is something she's always wanted to say, but never had the courage to. And now when she wants to say it more than anything, no one will listen. They pay her no heed.
They are strange things, so intricate and so simple. There are so mortal and so fragile and so human.
Perhaps she was once a human like them, but that was eons ago when her life was written down in her dusty novel. But those pages have worn and ripped and she has lost that record. Her only keepsake is that little heart that she so closely keeps pressed to her chest. Perhaps she was once like them, but her novel was ages old and she wonders just how long she's been stranded here with no one to see her.
She unfolds that paper heart and cautiously wears it on her sleeve.
And she muses. If -when- she was a person, was she so blind like the ones that walk through and past her? Were there ghostly beings lost like her, just looking for someone to see with little remants of thier past hidden in their pockets as they met many clueless eyes? Were there, are there, those like her who wonder alone, swimming in the lingerins of a tidal wave that once swept them away in solitude? And did she walk past them, ignorant to their presense? Did she pass by without a second thought? Did she not listen when so desperately called to for recognition and companionship?
How then, can she blame them for not seeing when she was once one in the same?
For ever and a half, she drifts and the sight of these bustling, hustling people becomes mundane. She stands before them, they do not see. She calls out to them, they do not hear. And after so much time, she has stopped calling out. She has stopped looking at their faces.
But as she stands at the center of a moving crowd, shoulders sagged in defeat, she glances up with a deep sigh.
And she meets warm eyes.
She almost gasps as shivers run down her spectral spine and she can't tell if he is merely looking through her or at her. She can't fathom why he would do the latter. So she tries to rationalize that he can't see her because no one has before and there can't be anything extraordianary about this boy who holds her terrified stare. He casts a glance at her sleeve where her little paper heart is pinned and meets her glance once more, cocking his head in earnest curiosity.
There's an awkward, lopsisded thump in her chest that has remained silenced for ages.
There's feeling coursing through her veins and she has forgotten this sensation. She gives a small smile for the first time in eons.
And she finally has gallantry to whisper the word written on her little paper heart; he grins shen she opens her mouth, a twinkling in his inquisitve eyes.