There she sat, right on that couch with a diary on her lap and my head over her shoulder. The couch now glares at me with disgust, as it kisses the void that she left. She was different from them, not the way she looked or spoke but the way she lived. In a world where we gaze at the stars, she would sing them songs. She had that magic in her, the kind they talk about in those fairy tales.

Whenever it rains, it reminds me of her. Bits by bits, over the decaying years, we have drifted apart. Yet somehow...