She sat on the dirty patio littered with mismatched, second-hand lawn furniture. The branches of the palms above tried and failed to shield her eyes from the rhythmic washes of sun which leapt across her face. The day she’d been admitted her pupils had ceased to contract and expand in their expected fashion.
She talked to no one in particular about a boy she’d known, a boy who’d said her name in just the right way.
He’d fled just the same as the others had, and the others would.
She’d said beautiful things to him, millions and millions of beautiful and poetic things, but it always ended in silence and less-poetic retreats.
Next time, she would try to say less. But she would always say beautiful things because beautiful things were all she knew how to say.