She stared at the darlings holding hands in front of her walking down the sidewalk, and she felt lonelier than ever. She wanted to write a heart-wrenching, hand-wringing, tear-jerking, earth-shattering poem about it, only she couldn't; it would be dishonest. Her feelings were not so violent. No, she was still upright, walking, healthy, happy, almost. There was simply a melancholic weight that had settled in the middle of her chest, and it sometimes made it hard to sleep. When that happened, a cup of hot, chamomile tea usually did the trick. But sometimes, the blues struck her hard. Nothing saps happiness out a girl's heart faster than the blues. She felt lost. There seemed to be a thousand directions she could take, but none of them led to the horizon, and all seemed to end in a downward trajectory, plummeting straight to the earth. There were only two people in the world she wanted to talk to about it. The first, He was quiet. Well, maybe not quiet so much as vague. The other, well, he was the reason for the melancholy. She couldn't talk to him. It seemed that she would have to be patient with her introspection until she could find some answers.
This, however, made her sigh. It's hard to be half-way lonely for a very long time.
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