She is the girl with hollow, almost vacant eyes.
Without turning around, she whispers into the darkness with a voice so painfully delicate. "I am just tired." You will notice the way she says goodbye, with a little tinge of pain in her eyes as if it might be the last time you see her. The spaces between her fingers grasp yours tight, as if dependent on this vacuum of space to keep her warm even just for a little while.
"I am just tired."
It will not take much to realize that her fatigue is a flimsy facade to mask the tenderness within her. She would never tell you that she has not stepped out of her room in weeks. She would mask it with pretentious activities to maintain her sanity. She would stay hidden from the world and bury herself in work. She would create magical things within this confined vacuum of space. The problem about her is that she allows herself to succumb to the world. As she prays for God to take her, she prays for superhuman strength to be constructed at the same time. She is a fighter in her own right, an unbeatable warrior of her own heart. You will fall in love with her ability to see things in strikingly different perspectives. You will be drawn towards her courage.
Take pride in the fact that she calls you often.
As queer as it sounds, she enjoys solitude too much to even bear the thought of sharing it with anyone else. To her, nothing is more important in the world than being absolutely comfortable with yourself in conscious confinement. She strongly believes in the indulgence of seclusion from the world, more specifically, people. You will speak on the phone. Sometimes in the middle of the night, those unearthly hours when lights are dimmed and shouts turn to whispers. You will both be intoxicated from a long day at work and completely drained by the world. Your voices will waltz in harmony even thousands of miles away, and the melody of exchanged words will be a magical antidote for your fatigue.
If you are looking for an arm trophy and nothing more, look somewhere else. She refuses to be your usual pretty face. She will battle against the walls of conformity and be wildly defiant towards the idea of fitting in on superficial terms. She detests the ridiculously fabricated status quo that tells people what they can or cannot do. She celebrates individualism and will encourage you to do so. She will make you a better person, in every aspect of your life. It will seep in slowly, like a leaking water pipe hidden within the walls that you have constructed around you.
Be comforted in the fact that she will be your home when your adventures run dry and stagnant.
You will find out that she is mad and magic at the same time. She is a self-proclaimed pessimistic optimist who cannot mask her sadness even if she wanted to. She will never bring herself to plaster a smile and laugh for the sake of it. She will not be bubbly and submissive to please you and your sorry standards. She cannot be.
Never, ever attempt to patronize her. Restraint your words as you struggle to sugarcoat them. Break her heart as you turn to leave. Stab her with the blades of your empty promises and she will write her sorrow away.
She will keep these words safely huddled in folders, at the back of her bookshelf until she is ready to face them again. Her disappointment in you will cease to exist over time. She has been through worse events, and knows that pain is required for growth. She will be okay, eventually.
We all do.
Note: This entry has been sitting as a draft for quite some time because I felt like it was never ready for me to publish it. Here it is, unpolished and raw from my personal journal. It will never be "ready" in my standards anyway. So, screw "ready".