There’s a quill gripped between her teeth, its barbs damp with warm breath and bent with gnashing thoughtfulness. There’s an inkwell on the table before her, and an open book beside it, the former too full and the latter too empty.
She’s trying to write, but so far the only words she’s managed are:
Dear Diary,
There are other mistakes words there, too, but they were lies not the words she’d been looking for, and she’d had to cross them out.
Most of the page is blank. It is the sort of emptiness that calls out to be filled, like a pregnant silence captured on a piece of paper. She had never liked pregnant silences. They were the worst kind of silence, always hanging heavily in the air like this afternoon at Sugarcu. They weren’t the comfortable, companionable silences she and Mac would always fall into as they worked the farm, nor were they the reassuring, productive silences she and Bloom would fill with chores and homework each night. Those were nice silences. She’d never shared a silence with Pinkie before
She’s trying to fill the silence, but so far all she’s managed to say is:
Dear Diary,
Because you can take back the things you’ve said on paper, if you lie don’t quite say them right. The silence of a page can be unfilled, but a silence in the air changes with each failed attempt to fill it. It’s more than just scribbles of ink crossed through or otherwise rendered illegible: it’s a new silence, a different silence.
She wishes she could start again, because even if she’d only get two words in before being right back where she is now at least she’d have done something. She wishes they could start again, too, that they could wind back the clocks as easily as flicking back through pages…
Dear Diary,
Today Pinkie made a picnic and sneaked the entire thing into the orchards. We spent our lunch hours lying on the grass at the top of the hill, and Pinkie told me all about the customers she’d had in that morning, and about the twins’ being ill, and about twilight’s tired eyes and six coffees…
A smile.
Dear Diary,
Pinkie dragged me all the way up the mountain to Canterlot to go to the circus because I let slip that I’d never been to one before. Turns out they’re a bit like a rodeo, only with all the ponies dressed up in the silliest costumes (the only matter of fashion Rarity and I are likely to ever agree on) and there’s none of the thrill of competition. Still, it was a good night out, and Pinkie had a lot of fun with it all, especially when she found the cotton candy…
A chuckle.
Dear Diary,
Pinkie asked me out this afternoon…
A tear.
There’s a quill gripped between her teeth, its barbs damp and bent under the weight of rivulets of saltwater. There’s an inkwell on the table before her, a closed book beside it, the former too full of ink and the latter too full of pain.
She’s trying to write, but she can’t bring herself to open the cover.
A barb of feather tickles her lip, like a kiss and she opens her mouth a fraction to feel the damp, soft tendrils caressing slide over her skin. A moan-like sob pushes itself out of her throat, the very air in her lungs vibrating with the low, almost musical note. She doesn’t know if it is a sob of regret or a moan of longing or merely the sound of a lost soul crying out for its mate…
There’s a quill gripped between her teeth, its barbs almost snapping under the pressure of determination. There’s an inkwell on the table before her, and the cover of the book beside it falls open with a thud, the former too full of ink and the latter not yet full of truth.
She needs to write the truth out, but so far it’s all hidden behind the words:
Dear Diary,
There are other words, too, crossed out and ignored and forgotten, because they weren't the words she's looking for. Time after time she's started this from scratch, but everything she writes feels wrong and she always comes back to those damn words.
This time, she doesn’t.
Dear Diary,
I broke
Today I learned that even though you might think you and your part
I can still feel her lips
why
Dear Pinkie,
I realise now that what I said today wasn’t right. I don’t mean that I shouldn’t have broken up with you—you and I both know it wasn’t working. But I wasn’t kind, and now you’re hurting because of me. I’m sorry.
I miss you already. I miss curling up with you and listening to you talk about all the things you’d done and seen that day. But if we kept going, we’d have made each other miserable. Wouldn’t we?
Love (despite it all),
Applejack x