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What are you waiting for?
She's sitting there, staring out into the space where millions meet. Eyes wandering listlessly over the actions and words of people without faces, sentiments without meaning. Sitting there, quiet and still while her mind races miles ahead.
He says Hello.
Her mind and heart stop. She raises one shaking finger to her lips as the other hand reaches to tremble above the keys. Uncertainty freezes her eloquence as she glances at the clock and plots her response. Three minutes have gone past. There has been no movement save the worried nibbling on her fingertips as she looks out vacantly and ponders. Nothing should be said, his offhand words left orphans in the white space of the warm screen. No acknowledgement necessary. It comes to nothing, it means nothing and it's going through her mind even as her naieve heart composes phrases in the still air surrounding her.
She begins to type. Per tradition, she says nothing that she means, says nothing at all. Mere tokens of hello and banter that keep this tenuous, strumming interaction alive. Bandies the ideas as though all is light and carefree. As though she isn't breathlessly pleading on the inside.
"I don't know how to tell you, I know I can't convince you. Something in me senses something so lost and empty within you. A dangerous chasm that I cannot fill but that yet creates a mirror aching within me for reasons unknown. If only I could shut down the parts of you that try and strive, the bits of you that think that nerve endings are the key to life then maybe I could hold something true and real that usually hides and whisper to it the wonder of what you are. The boy with something to prove, proved everything in his first smile. Would be a king in my eyes with nothing but that smile, and that mind. Careful how you toy with me for I seem fierce but wound quite easily. I've no wish to hurt, trap or hinder that spirit that yearns so desperately to be courageous and free. I just want to show you how that clever energy inside awoke something in me that had long been asleep."
Another cunning phrase clicked into the existence of their dying repartee. She pushes the keyboard aside, sighs, scrubs her hands across her eyes and groans, "enough." Stands and walks to the mirror, preparing to commence another disguise. She's never the same girl twice. Everything changes, every single day, with every word that is spoken or written. The trouble is not in his words,his silences or even the effect they create in her mind. No matter, it has been called and become truth that this girl fell smitten.
The trouble is, the problem has become, the simple ability to tell truth from fiction.
(can you?)
