“…but I quite like the dark,” she said, gazing into the horizon.

“Oh yeah?” he responded.

Her statement was puzzling to him because she was one of the good ones. The light and bright ones. The smiling and cheerful ones. The kind and peaceful ones. The grateful ones. The praying ones.

She was one of the chosen ones.

It was all of these stories that he carried about her that nudged him to probe further:

“Why? I mean…why do you like the dark?”

She looked into his curious eyes with a gentle smile and said: “…because it doesn’t expect all of those lovely things that you just thought about me.”

To this he responded with a silence that was packed with words that his tongue couldn’t wrap itself around. He could only remain silent.

“You see?” She said. “This. Your silence. That’s that kind space that the dark offers me to be all that I really am.”

“Don’t worry though,” she continued – “it’s only midday; there are still plenty of hours for you to receive the story of me that you prefer. The only story of me that you can speak to.”

He remained quiet. Secretly relieved that he didn’t have to be her night. Secretly disappointed to learn that her Sun does set.

Because she was his light and bright one. His smiling and cheerful one. His praying one. His peace. The one who distracted him from his own night.

But she liked the dark.

14300cookie-checkSHE LIKES THE DARK
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