Humans are fickle things, never satisfied with what they have. They more of everything, they’re born greedy. There are writers. Humans that write stories, creating worlds with their imagination. These worlds pull you in, take you on a journey, letting you want something fictional. Humans read these books, their greed growing for the unknown. They wanted what they cannot have without heeding the words written between the lines. The writers make it obvious enough, though. That the humans needed to appreciate what they had.
In an old farmhouse in a coastal city, lived a girl around the age of six. The girl was cowering behind her cupboard door, wrapped up in a blanket. She pushed herself as flat against the wall as she could with her enormous eyes trained on the door. The shouting echoed throughout the house as she covered her ears, not wanting to hear. They were fighting over her as they always did. The girl never understood why they fought, never listening to what they said. Hiding away, once the arguments escalated from words to objects being thrown across the room. Although she was so young she had closed off her heart to them. There was no love lost as they didn’t share much with her either. They were distant and strange, often whispering till it rose into shouting. The thunder rumbled louder than the shouting, drowning out their voices. A flash of lightning. The light shined through her slanted cupboard doors. The flash illuminated the compact hiding space, revealing a boy. He was sitting in front of her; he looked as if he was inside the hanging mirror hooked over her cupboard door.
The boy looked straight out of an old black and white film. They stared at each other. The pounding in her heart was deafening as she stared at him. Inside she crept forward, careful not to scare the boy as if he were a wild animal. He sat still, intrigued as the girl in front of him moved closer. His eyes still burning with tears, as he rubbed them with the back of his fists. She had been crying too, eyes aglow with moisture. She reached forward, placing her small hand against her mirror; the boy looked at it. He placed his own hand against his mirror, mimicking her. His hand was bigger, swallowing her small hand and delicate fingers. They sat there, her in her bedroom cupboard. The boy in his bedroom in the east tower of an estate that belonged to his father’s friend. Each needing comfort and finding it in the stranger before them.
Their little faces were both tears streaked as they stared, not daring to look away. Their eyes locked and filled with emotions they did not comprehend yet. A fierce lightning bolt pierced the sky outside the farmhouse. A shock of electricity flowed between the two hands on the opposing mirrors. They stayed there the whole night, staring at one another. Warmth spread through them where their hands met on the mirrors, as they fell asleep. Their soft tiny figures never touching each other yet never leaving the other.
The girl woke up to the rain pouring down her window. Laying in her bed wondering if she had imagined the boy and the feeling, he had given her a feeling of fullness. The boy woke up on an icy stone floor in a tower room. He got up, looking out at the frost-bitten kingdom below. He knew it had not been a coincidence he had needed her more than he had ever needed anything before. The girl wanted it to be real, more than anything she had ever wanted. They both wanted to be whole.