the threads in her head

Her hair combed nicely, twisted up elegantly - full of smiles she was, her mouth curved upward. She was picture perfect. Delicate steps she took, smiling graciously at anyone who caught her eye.

It was not a particularly beautiful smile, but there was an elegant hint about it. Her smile was kissed with the moon, and not the sun. It was the moon that had descended from her place up in the celestial realm, glistening with a pearly-white, and came upon her, landing gently on her smile like a butterfly would perch delicately on the flower. And that was what it held, a surreal glow. Her smile needed no make-up, no artificial glint.

People knew her smile.

But how many could claim to know what was behind the smile? How many could sense the sadness, the fragile strength of keeping the smile up? How many had been caught up into the whirlwind of her emotions, and felt her pain to be theirs?

Let’s not even speak of feeling. How many had seen her broken side, her tears which flowed? Do not trust the movies, for when one is reduced to tears, there’s nothing pretty about it. It’s a confession of weakness, a sign of vulnerability. It is a need for help.

How many had put their hands on her back as she sobbed, their hand providing a warmth, a steady support – a big contrast with the trembling of the shadows? How many had wished to bring her into their warmth, enclose her safely in their arms? How many had felt their heart ache along with her broken state, and wished to tenderly close her wounds?

Few.