Tell her to fly again, because for you, she would. For you she would lift her chin up, and meet the world with a steadfast gaze and unwavering courage. For you she would speak again.
When she was younger, she stopped speaking. She just swallowed her own voice and never used it again. She met you mutely, with only her eyes and smile: eyes that spoke words taught by the heart and not by the tongue, and a smile that knew how to say silent "yes"s.
The first time you heard her speak was when you walked out of her life: "I will wait," she said.
You never heard her again because it was a lie: when you came back, she was not waiting. She was lying on her bed, wrapped in the soft green muslin dress that she had so loved to wear, her eloquent eyes forever closed, her heart far out of your reach. Her family had laid roses around her, and the sunshine-gold of their petals made her face look as white as the snow she used to try to hold in her hands.
You see, even "forever"s are never forever.















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