The sky, in faint wisps of cloudy whispers, softly told her to hope, hope so hard that it hurt her warm palpitating heart and her quaint labyrinthine mind and the inner reaches of her fragile whimsical soul; simply hope, and the pressure from the hurt shall transform the sooty coal into a glimmering diamond, a luminous jewel with lethal angles cut into an impossible perfection.
So she smiled back and followed her dearest friend’s advice, and she hoped, hoped so hard and intense that it almost shattered her into a million unidentifiable pieces, but she gritted her teeth and clenched her knuckles and she held on to that painful hope, using it as a concrete anchor, hoping and holding for dear life.
Now the cunning hurt had buried itself in the deepest, most calignious nook of her spirit and being, the very entity that once nearly broke her in the first place now ironically keeping her together, and the proud, sneering, cruel hurt never left, no matter how hard she tried to expel it from within her.
She yelled frustratedly at the rapidly-fading sky and called it a liar and a traitor and an enemy and a multitude of degrading names more colourful than the most spectacular sunset that her lost companion had ever painted, asking for answers, barbed amalgamation of hope and hurt piercing itself deeper with every uttered jinx.
Yet in the end, she can only collapse in tiredness and futility, pityingly pleading, with viscid inky tears running down her cheeks and staining her moon-white cotton dress, for her dearest friend to remove the spreading hurt, the unrequited hope that poisoned her body and crippled her system and tore her soul apart.
But the sky had already turned dark, and the stars were nowhere to be seen.