She and Him

She's plump and she's odd and because of this she has long stopped expecting friends. While she sometimes rathers her peers liked her, she can't hate them for it. The times she stands away from herself she sees why they avoid her: she's crouched under the jungle gym, her fingers tap-tapping in her ears. Her mouth is moving, conversing. They don't tease her behind her back or to her face. She is not ignored or disregarded. Among them, she simply doesn't exist. She could steal a lunch roll or untie a class mate's laces and no one would lift an eyebrow. Anything she does is anticipated and completely in the ordinary.

She builds her peace on having one friend. Well, no. Not a friend, a confidant, a first mate, a partner. With her fingers plugging her ears she can hear him in the hollow of her mind. He whispers to her through her lips. He whispers advice and plans and dreams and she whispers back. Once, before she was enrolled at school, he taught her how to make the moon smile. The only problem now, she tells him, is that the moon won't stop smiling.