//------------------------------//
// Sunday 
// Story: Love is in Bloom 
// by StayedGolden 
//------------------------------//

Then, away from there, 
You no longer laid 
In oppressed, dead air.
In sunlight’s golden care,
With nearby flowers springing,
Resting in sunny beam,
The cheerful cry of young birds singing,
Beside a peaceful crystal stream.
But soon the sky grew black and charred,
Through ghastly wood a hurricane raved,
Your limbs from motion barred,
As the Earth beneath you gave.
Thus was life’s murderous morning
The reprieve you had enjoyed
But on small pull, loud tempests storming
And Ephesian bliss destroyed.
Reality, worse than he who’d deceive me,
Who promised good and gave but ill,
Of many joys and cheers bereaved me-
But there is a heart that supports me still.

“Uh, fuck…”

“C’mon, wake up,” comes the quiet voice above you, almost unintelligible through the haze of sleep. A pull of your arm sends a sharp discomfort in your arm, the limb unaccustomed to being drawn that way. The pain pierces through the leaden smog of your weariness, popping it like a balloon. You groan again, upon feeling the earnest pull give you another unnecessary jolt. Wrenching your arm away, both to avoid further attacks and to reveal your semi-wakefulness, you struggle to sit up. It takes you a minute, but eventually success finds you. You open your eyes to the pitch black room, struggling to see anything, even with your eyes used to the blackness. Looks like there’s a shape in front of you, but it’s still nearly invisible. For a moment, your experience with survival horror games becomes training, and you scoot away from the suddenly terrifying shape. But the fear is dashed in a moment, when the voice comes again, this time fully understandable. 
“Anon? It’s me, Apple Bloom.” The adrenaline gives the words secure transit into your alert mind, sealing its own doom. Your parasympathetic nervous system works on calming you down, not immediately succeeding. You’re left with that anxious energy that is left when a threat is gone but the response hasn’t disappeared, as well as the annoyance of becoming stolen from a perfect dream. Her hands rest on the bed, noticeable by their sinking of those portions via the weight placed on them. You reach out to grab her hands, both to feel her again and in hopes of defusing the very irritated reaction. She closes her own hands on you, successfully soothing you for the most part. For a minute all you do is hold her hands, drinking in the life that seems to flow from her. She does the same, the words in her throat given pause while she draws strength from you. Unknown demons depart from you, sunder by the hope that grows from the simple touch. And while the oppressors where not seen, the freedom from their departure is noticed, and Apple Bloom releases her held words. “C’mon, get up.”
You draw one hand back to free your eyes from the dust caught in them, absent-mindedly preparing yourself for the day. Upon the cleansing of both, you take a look outside the window, the thick blanket of night still spread fully over the sky. The blackness had been traded for a slightly more visible dark blue, shapes somehow able to be made out in the night. Probably due to the moon and your eyes. Still, your train was at 7:30, definitely past the sunrise, and the ride to the station negligible. So why were you up before the sun? 
“Wait, what time is it?”
“It’s 4:30, c’mon, hurry.” She says with increased fervor, remembering her task. The hand still connected to yours pulls, her whole body wrenching you forward. Clad only in pajamas bottoms, bare chest exposed to the world, you’re glad this wasn’t a hot night. She continues dragging you, the strength of a farmer hidden within the slender limbs of a young girl. You stop her momentarily, pulling back on the hurried girl. 
“Ok, ok, just give me a second.” You draw a shirt out of your dresser and quickly put it on, knowing that you’re probably gonna need it for whatever’s going on. As you open the sock drawer, her hand insistently steals your from it.
“You don’t need that, it’ll take too long,” she says, eager to bring you to some destination. You accept her parameters, unsure that you ever really had a choice in the matter. She wasn’t an easy girl to deny. As you’re brought through darkened hallways, the memories of the previous night return to you. How you wanted to help, and didn’t. You face contorts in shame, thankfully unseen by the forward-looking Apple Bloom. In your silent agony, you do hold her hand a little tighter, the act of falling on her support becoming an almost instinctual reaction to you. Her hand squeezes back three times, and she finds time to turn back and smile in your mad dash. It looks like she’s not doing too bad, and that helps to alleviate some of the pain. Your mind tries to cling to the awful moment that you stood still, but the current stomping around the house prevents you from wholly sinking into the memory. She’s too present, the motion too real for you to replace the moment with the memory. 
The depressed force within you is kept off balance, that particular demon unable to sit upon your shoulder and whisper hateful criminations while you bounce down the stairs. The rise soon ends at the glass window of the kitchen, whose usually clear exterior has been completely marred. It looks like hundreds of small lines, the short etchings of an artist, have covered the whole, each retaining some warped reflection of the indigo world. After a moment standing in the quiet, you hear a small tingling, like dozens of small folklore-esque creatures dancing on the roof. And then it hits you: it’s raining.
Apple Bloom opens the sliding glass door, the light pounding of rain growing slightly louder. You can feel a slight chill when the night air comes into the house, but it’s surprisingly mild. It was still summer, the beginning of the hotter portion of it, and so even the edges of the day didn’t get too cold. Out back, there’s two wooden tables with a umbrellas above them, unused before now. There’s a small gauntlet between here and there, an area where the small overhang of the roof nor the umbrella covers. Furthermore, the umbrellas are closed, leaving the table and chairs soaked; so much for your plan. You close your eyes, the warm rain still slightly colder than the heated house, but nonetheless pleasant. Your left hand reaches out to the girl standing beside you, but her requitement only lasts a moment. She turns to you, hand still in yours, but moving around in her gesticulations.
“Alright, so Ah’m gonna bring out some blankets, an’ we can throw those over the chairs, make em nice and comfy for us. You go run out and bring that umbrella up, and Ah’ll be out in a moment with those blankets.” Her orders are firm without being sharp, like a leader that knows what needs to get down, but still takes her workers into consideration. The smile she beams at you at the end, in anticipation of this last moment together, grows some small excitement in you as well. It’d be just like Apple Bloom to salvage this day, even just a little bit. Before you can set out to bring that umbrella up, she stops you: “Oh, hold on.” She takes off, scampering into some distant area. You stand there for a moment, and yawn. The incomplete sleep starts to creep back in, your body calling for a return to bed. You wipe your eyes, yawning again. There’s no way you’re going back to bed, but there’s still the concern over whether you’re gonna be able to fully enjoy this. Shaking your head to clear it from sleep, you find Apple Bloom looking at you, a certain clarity in her eyes and towels in her hands. “Here, after you get those umbrellas up, wipe off the table and chairs best you can. That way, the water won’t soak through the blankets.” 
You accept the towels and head out to the first table, the brisk air meeting you fully from your first step. Inside, it’d just blown on you from beyond the door, but now it surrounded you. It still wasn’t too cold, although you are regretting not having a heavier shirt or a coat. Every footstep results in a mild splash flying up around your feet, the sound noticeable even when submerged under thousands of raindrops exploding like mortar fire. Water from each step reaches high, leaving your legs under a watery assault from both sky and earth. Soon you reach the umbrella and drop the towels on the wet surface, then turning the small mechanism that slowly extends it. It blooms slowly but surely, and in no time you’ve found protection from the liquid artillery. Taking the towels, you start wiping off the surface of the stained wood table and two of the four chairs. The two towels don’t absorb all of it, leaving behind a slight dampness you wouldn’t sit on.
You stand under the wide umbrella, trying to find a good position to wait for Apple Bloom in. Luckily, you don’t actually have to wait for long. Not ten seconds after you’ve finished, she comes soaring through the door, wrapped in a cocoon of red and yellow. Looking like some dragon from  a Chinese festival, the intricate patterns of the blankets fly up and down as she bounds over to you. They cover her whole body, including her face, with a little tail at the end dragged along the ground. Realizing she might not see where the table is, you position yourself to catch her. Her stride not slowing down, you realize she might have misjudged the distance. Before she hits the table, you bend down a tad and grab onto her waist. Transferring the speed in a spinning motion, you lift her up and twirl in place. It might have been like one of those romantic movies where couples spin in a field or at some station after not seeing each other forever if she hadn’t been completely cloaked in apple-patterned blankets. Still, while the romance might have been injured by the vibrant coverings, it’s still quite a bit of fun, and you can hear the functionally blind girl shout ‘wheee!’ in delight at the sudden spinning.
You find yourself laughing a bit, partly due to the fact that you’re spinning a red and yellow blob in the middle of a rainy day, and partly because she’s laughing too. You set her down, and start unwrapping the best present you could have ever gotten. She stands absolutely straight, appearing to have the same idea of a summer Christmas: when the parts that cover her head are removed, the unveiled girl is smiling brightly at you, her eyes wide and her lip lightly bit by sparkling teeth. It feels so silly, so much in contrast to how you’ve been feeling, that you can’t help but grin at the sight of the pretty girl partially unwrapped. She helps you remove the rest of the blankets, both of you sharing in a happiness blind to everything but this moment. Both of you lay down your respective blankets, the primarily red one for you and the primarily yellow one for her. You sit down in yours, and after a moment of decision-making, she chooses your lap over her own seat. Without being asked, she informs you:
“This way, we can get under the blanket, since it’s a bit cold.” A needless question surfaces in your mind, and you voice it without thinking.
“Why didn’t you just get more blankets?” 
“Oops,” she says after a brief pause, the words sounding completely insincere. Then she curls up into you, humming quietly. Your arms wrap around her, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breaths. The light yellow shirt she’d be wearing is thin, the warmth of her skin able to be felt through it. Her arms are pulled into her chest, them and the left side of her torso pressed into your chest. Her legs are pulled up, resting on your lap and thighs. Her right leg slips through the gap in yours, repeatedly being repositioned so as to avoid this, but to no avail. Your arms slacken as the peaceful moment invites sleep into you once more. Apple Bloom looks at you curiously, tilting her head back to do so. She sees your closed eyes and soft smile, then kisses your cheek.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, then unfolds the blanket. The sudden gust of outside air and absence of your cousin is shocking, the temperature rapidly decreasing. You pull the blanket back over yourself , recovering some of that warmth, but still missing the body on yours. It’s quiet out here. The rain still falls, but it sounds as if it’s getting more faint. You hope it doesn’t go away: that sound, that smell, the way it takes up your sight past a certain area… there’s just something special about rain. Granted, you couldn’t care less about these things if you were unequipped for it, and were getting drenched on the way to something. But right here, under this umbrella, with the warm air: it was pretty nice. You close your eyes and breathe in that sweet, almost indescribable smell, a small smile crawling up your face. A moment later, a different smell penetrates that previously omnipresent cloud of rain, but you can’t put your finger on the intruder. The sound of the sliding glass door shutting reaches your ears, and you smile again in anticipation of your reunion. As the pitter-patter of little feet grow louder, so too does the smell grow stronger. It isn’t long before you recognize the smell of coffee.
The mere smell has some strength of invigoration, opening up your eyes by its nearness. She puts the steaming cup on the table, then opens up your blanket cocoon to crawl back in. As she does so, sapping the heat you’ve built up, you reach over for the coffee. Wanting to make the most of this moment, you bring it up to your nose and breath in deeply. It smells fresh, which it probably is, seeing that you didn’t smell anything when you were near the kitchen just a minute ago. But there’s also another smell, something like chocolate complimenting the aroma. You blow on it a few times to cool it off, then take a sip: the taste is like regular black coffee, only with a very noticeable addition of chocolate. It’s a strange taste, similar without being identical to a mocha, but still a darn good one. Setting the cup back down, you notice two stunning amber eyes looking up at you.
“Didja like it?” You nod and answer in the affirmative:
“Yeah, that was really good. What’d you put in it?” 
“Hot cocoa. I figured you were probably pretty tired, so Ah turned on the coffee-making thing when I went to get the blankets. But Ah know that most people don’t like black coffee, -an’ Ah can get why; that stuff’s plain awful-“ she interjects, referencing the terrible coffee she had yesterday. “an’ Ah didn’t know how much cream, sugar, or whatever you want in it -you know how people always got really complicated orders- so Ah just dumped some hot cocoa in there.” You can’t help but chuckle at her plan, thankful at having a successful result. You really do need some coffee, and you were never a huge fan of the home-made stuff. But this was just fine by you, the cocoa helping to balance out the natural bitterness. Taking another sip, the burning liquid warming your insides. The heat of the drink, the smell and sound of the rain, the gentle breathing of the girl under your arms are all too perfect to handle, and you find yourself humming along with Apple Bloom, completely content.
You lean your head back, closing your eyes, not because of drowsiness, but the desire to sit back and enjoy the experience. It was as if nothing behind it existed, nothing to break your happiness. You were dimly aware of a future tragedy, which did send a sinking feeling to your stomach, but you didn’t welcome it in. Rather than try to suppress it, to push it out of your mind with no force beyond the effort not to think about it or related objects, you accepted it. This moment would end, yes. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t good, and that was the part of it that you chose to feel, to experience. The future will come when it comes; you’d heard that and similar bromides through the years, but right now was the only time you really felt it. But that was enough thinking: if you stayed in your head any longer, you’d miss what was right in front of you.
Squeezing Apple Bloom a few times, you see her head pop out of the blankets again. You hadn’t really meant to get her attention, only wanting to feel her under your arms in a slightly different way. But now that she was looking at you, her mouth having cleared the border, you can lean down and give her a big kiss. Doing so, she closes her eyes and lets you, eager to have your mouth covering hers. She pushes her head up, and is the first to involve tongues in what you meant to be a smaller kiss. The passionate kiss is lovely, stirring your heart, but neither of you continues it for too long. It’s a gentle, quiet morning, fit more for deep intimacy than excited passion. She tries to move back down into the blanketed haven, but you insist that she stays, and rises a bit. Adjusting both you and her, the girl surrendering to your guidance, she now sits on your lap with her head tilted back onto your shoulder.The cool air on your face and the warmth under the blanket reminds you of something, but it’s hard to place. You hold onto your Apple Bloom, your hands resting on her stomach, and just think for a moment. A couple stray drops are blown in from the side, leaving tiny splashes on your face. Then it comes to you.
“You know, this kinda reminds me of camping,” you say out loud, wanting to share the story with Apple Bloom. She turns toward you, looking interested already. “Me and my dad went camping once, in some park on the outskirts of New York. It was really quiet and peaceful; there couldn’t have been more than five or six people on the campground. I remember being really surprised that we were still in New York, since everywhere in the city always has like, a dozen people in it.” You chuckle at your youthful confusion of the city and the state, having used to think that the whole state was buildings from border to border. “Anyway, it was really nice. There was this little stream where we tried catching fish, but we never did. Just kinda sat there.” Apple Bloom’s curious eyes follow you, except when your small motions over her stomach distract her.
“When’d you go?”
“Oh, I think I was like six or seven. Um…” you put your finger on your lip, trying to draw the memory out. “It was the summer, right after first grade. Or maybe before? No, after. So yeah, I was seven.” Apple Bloom nods, trying to gauge how old she was and where she was in the world at that time. 
“What made you think of that?” 
“I don’t know… But it was just really nice. Waking up to nature, almost completely away from civilization -you know, cause the truck and our gear was there- was phenomenal.” It was the fresh feeling of getting out of your sleeping bag for the first time. Your dad had insisted on a true camping trip, with a tent instead of a camper, which was why your mother hadn’t come along. Of course, this was part of your dad’s plan, who actually wanted to spend time with his son. He knew he’d be chastised by his wife later, have to stand with her at parties while she discussed the apelike nature of men to her nodding, insufferable friends. Still, it was a humiliation he had accepted at that point at his life, before his company became so busy, and so important. You’d left your sleeping bag at his behest, who poked his head in at some awful hour of the morning with a goofy grin, saying ‘Let’s catch some fish!’ You bundled up the best you can from within the cold tent, but when you stepped out, it was still pretty cold. Your body bundled up and kept somewhat warm, but your face subject to the breeze, and a comfy intimacy with a loved one, the sensation you’d had then was similar to now. Of course, you weren’t entirely aware of that: only that something on that trip felt like this moment with Apple Bloom.
“That sounds really nice.” She says sweetly, her open eyes conveying absolute authenticity. Staring at her now, you feel the fire in your heart burning brighter, as it often did when you held a fresh image of her before your eyes. Here, with her warm body in your arms and her wonderful face so close, your heart beats faster. Her eyes turn away from you, looking into the clouds as she tries to remember the details of some camping story of her own. Her eyes dart here and there, the golden irises restless in their pursuit of the events. Meanwhile, you’re satisfied with merely looking at her, giving her your full attention. Suddenly, as her eyes and smile widen in successful reclamation of the nearly lost memory, a thought strikes you, an impassioned inspiration you’d given into once and suppressed ever since. You need to give this girl a poem. Before you can start making it up, she begins to speak, recounting her own story.
“Ah know what you mean. Not too long ago, Me, AJ, and Big Mac all went out to this place downstate, with this big old lake a little ways away. The campgrounds were really dry; like, really dry. All the grass was dead, and the trees weren’t looking too good either.”
“What, where they dropping?” She thinks for a second, then shakes her head.
“It’s kinda hard to explain. But growing up around this many apple trees kinda lets you know what a bad tree looks like. And Ah can tell ya, these trees weren’t doing so great. Anyway, it was pretty bad, but Big Mac wanted to stick it out, so we stayed. On our second day there, he made both of us wake up early so we could go swimming before any a’ the boats got out there. AJ was always kinda worried about them an’ scaring away the fish they were trying to catch. Anyway, that morning was way cold: Ah had to put on two coats to keep warm! But as we were walking there, things started to get greener. Ah don’t know what they camping place was doing, but the further we got from the site, the more grass and good trees we saw. We had to take this little path on the side of a hill, and the whole thing just looked so beautiful.” Her eyes seem to sparkle as she tells her story, revisiting that vivid, life-filled walk through nature. “There were birds chirping, all these vines covering the path, and oh, so much!” She speaks about the flora for a little while, the only one in her group who had loved the forest enough to remember it. You stare back into her eyes, smiling as you do so. Forestry isn’t your favorite subject, but the way she speaks about it makes you care, her infectious enthusiasm doing its work. “Anyhow, it was a bit further away than we thought, and by the time we got there, all the boats were out, so we couldn’t go swimming. So we walked around in the nearby town for a while, and went back near the afternoon, when most of the boats had gone. It was nice, but nothing compared to that walk in nature.”
You listen, eager to take in as much about her as you can. Her story interests you, that’s for sure, but it’s the person behind it that gives it life. So often in these past days, the girl had seemed to live on a pedestal, too grand to be like any human being. But time and time again she showed you the particulars of her life: the stories, the hurts, the successes, and the imperfections. She was so gorgeous, so kind and wonderful in every kind of way that you finally had begun to understand all those mushy poets and their deific painting of women who didn’t matter to you. You’d heard famous names, been pushed by teachers to read their works, centering on some female name and vast longings and worship for and of them: it bounced off you like rain on an umbrella. The flames of your previous crushes had never burnt that brightly: there was always that frantic part of you that sought never to see the normal parts, lest the shine be tarnished, but you always knew that they were just people. But this girl threatened to make you swoon, filling you with some appreciation for everything that she was, the verb itself could never quite describe your affection, even from a distant standpoint. You were so full of love for this girl who was so much, love both immensely selfish -your desire for her touch was generous, to say the least- but also objective: even in the cold reality of a lonely future, you were still awash with joy just over the fact that she was. That she existed, that she lived, and touched the lives of people, yours included: that alone was so amazing. 
But she was human. You saw her with mud on her feet, a pimple on her forehead, and chipped nails from some adventure. When the voice from within threatened to ruin your care for her with claims of low humanity, it didn’t stand a chance. For all these things only increased her value: she was flawed, but she was majestic nonetheless. She had feelings, had imperfect skin, and lived in a real world, not on some divine cloud, but she was still kinder than any story-bound goddess could be, simply because she existed. All the saints and divines, despite the good they’ve done, still belong with their actions in the voice of a speaker or the pages of a book. Some were real, some were not, but they shared the common fate of being swallowed up by history and paper. This girl before you spoke, instead of being spoken of; her actions were seen, instead of reported; she is, and is not consigned wholly to having been. And all those good things about her, even the smallest, took on an immensity by their merging with reality, an immensity that dwarfed anything you could read or hear. Captured in all the gritty lowness of the real world, her beauty was only increased by the juxtaposition. You looked down on her, saw that sweet smile: she was human, but she was not low.
You give her another squeeze, so happy to be around and near her. It’d taken you a rough time, going back and forth between highs and lows you’d never before came near. And though one nourishing week and one rough night wasn’t going to make you a master, you had gained some ability to live in the moment. The future was there, chilling the edges of your heart like the tips of fingers left uncovered in the winter, but you didn’t let it in. There was a girl in your arms, a love that had rekindled life within you, and now was no time to forget about her. Another squeeze elicits a small squeak from her, melting your heart again. She has your full attention, and you don’t plan on giving it to anything else right now. The perfect girl looks at you with her wide eyes, and with a loosening of her lips, speaks with that heavenly voice:
“Hey, let’s go get something to eat.” You nod and smile, not fully understanding what she said. Being more than a little preoccupied with that source of your bursting heart, you can only spare a little attention to the actual content. It was a question, you knew that, and since you could never deny anything to the angel of Sweet Apple Acres, the only course of action was assent. Her teeth show in a bigger smile, the ends of your inattentive response met, and she starts to get up. Wait! No! Where’s she going? Before your inquisitive feelings emerge in an expression, her hand grabs yours and begins to pull you along. Ah, it looked like you were being brought somewhere. Similar to her pursuit of an answer, her pursuit of some destination could only end somewhere pleasant, and you were happy to give her the lead. The rain reemerges as you come out from under the umbrella, the blankets and hair on top of you blocking the moisture, but not the sound. Bare feet slosh through the distance between table and your home, any dryness achieved in your haven undone. 
Entering the house, she brings you to the kitchen. It’s clear to both you and her that your hand doesn’t need to be held in order for you to follow: you could and would do it even with lonely hands. No, she holds you for a separate reason, under the guise of wanting to ensure your following. Your touch, the connection between the two of you is just as important and loved by her as it is by you, and she was always taught to make the most of what she had. She had you, and she was gonna make the most of it for as long as you were near. You realize that breakfast lies on her mind as she opens up the fridge and rifles through it. More than a little in sync with her, you realize that hunger had crept up while you were admiring Apple Bloom, and begin searching as well. 
Your mind is split between the equally important tasks of finding some food and making a poem. You’re not very good at it: appreciation is one thing, but actually figuring out what to say was something completely different. Coming up with compliments without it sounding like some bland shopping list was turning out to be harder than you think. Did you need to make it rhyme, or was a lot of big words sufficient? The former sounds better, but every rough sketch you make seems to fall flat. Like trying to paint lightning with charcoal, the poems you make acceptably report the gist without staying true to the full beauty. But you don’t sweat it: you’ve got plenty of time to come up with something. The notion lies on the backburner while you check out the glowing trays of good. Some of it looks good, but Apple Bloom decries it with a steady
“Nah.” Alright, guess this stuff’s off the table. She opens the freezer next to it, and scans the contents. She holds her gaze on a tub of ice cream for a minute, then looks up at you? Your answer is yes, and you nod quickly to let her know how strongly you feel. This is probably an awful idea, but whatever. She hands you the gallon of ice cream, the chill of it immediately dropping the temperature of your hands. You speed over to the counter and set it down, the icy grasp immediately receding from partially numbed hands. The label reads: ‘Chocolate Peanut-Butter.’ Oh, heck yeah. Apple Bloom shuts the door and joins your side, lifting two bowls from the shelf in front of you. 
“Good thing we woke up early,” she whispers, trying to be quiet even though she could have cared less a moment ago. “AJ definitely wouldn’t have let us do this.” She had a point: the responsible girl, as much as you loved her, probably wouldn’t have been a huge fan of ice cream for breakfast. 
“Yeah.” You agree, also in a quieter voice than before. After all, there were stakes now. Opening the silverware drawer, the suddenly clanging makes both of you wince. Guess you could have done that a bit slower. She lightly picks up two spoons and a hefty ice cream scoop, then shuts it herself. It makes less noise on the way in. A handful of fat scoops rises out of the container, the rising silver scoop shining in the low light. The sky’s grown slightly lighter, but you still keep one lamp on inside to brighten the room without it being too bright. The dark of the morning had become a part of it, a kind of visual quietness that only expanded the comfy pleasure. Soft clinks deposit the thick blots of ice cream into your bowls, and after finishing filling both to the brim, she delicately puts it in the sink. The small ting can barely be heard. 
She exaggerates her secretive pretense, moving in slow motion as she slowly takes her hand out of her sink. Her eyes bug out and she bites her lip as she slowly replaces the lid of the ice cream. Long, slow strides take her over the fridge. The gallon of ice cream returns to its home silently, though there was the very real danger of so frozen peas clattering on the floor. Her slo-mo is compromised as her arm whips forward to catch the teetering bag, but resumes immediately after the success. Making up for the momentary lack is her quiet, drawn out ‘Noooooooo,’ that she utters after the fact. You wipe your forehead in the same slow motion, trying to look as cartoonishly relieved as you can. You and her lurch toward the glass sliding door with your awesome breakfast, looking like action heroes, only without the explosion behind you. 
As soon as the rain touches the two of you, the act is dropped, and you dart to your chairs and blankets. No need to get too wet. She sits in her own chair this time, which is a little sad for you, but definitely better for eating. Part of you wonders if it’s weird to hope that she returns to your lap after she’s finished. The other part continues working on rhymes while you eat. The delicious, creamy taste of what is undoubtedly the best ice cream in the world distracts you, and the words remain in unfinished shambles in the back of your mind. The hunger from your nightly fast urges you to devour the food, the contents of your bowl quickly disappearing in your voracity.
“Y’know, our family calls this Charlie Brown ice cream.” Apple Bloom’s voice pierces through the steady pounding of rain, an adorable bit of color in what was an otherwise dull auditory background. You look at her with a slight tilt of your head, and ask her:
“Why?” As far as you can tell, there’s no correlation. Her finger finds her lip as she thinks for just a moment, then responds with a shrug.
“Ah don’t know. Just always called it that.” You nod your head. In any other situation, it might have been weird, but you appreciate knowing these little things about her and her family. If anything, it might be good practice for when you join them. A dark pain races through you, the wish reminding you of your departure. But a quick smile at her, which elicits a bigger one back, chases the cloudy thoughts away. Pretty soon both breakfasts are finished, and set on the table with heavy sighs of contentment. You look up to the umbrella, vibrating softly under the onslaught of rain, and try to think of the perfect poem to give the perfect girl. As you do so, she grants your forgotten wish by coming over and seating herself right in your lap.
The resulting burst of warmth only adds to your desire to finish up the poem you’ve been trying to make. There might not be a lot of time left. Wrapping your arms around her, feeling that heat add to yours once more, you shut your eyes and breathe in. Then out. Then in. Gosh, this girl makes it hard to concentrate. She wraps the two of you up in blankets, shielding you from the chilly wind. Her own eyes close, and she slouches back into your chest, breathing softly. Having gotten up so early, she was still pretty tired. The movements had enticed you to open your eyes, and the moment you did, you were subject to that perfect view of a sleeping angel. Granted, she was still awake, but her peaceful face could have fooled anyone. That’s it, that’s where you’ll start 
Ok, sleeping angel. What rhymes with angel? You toss a couple of words around in your head: gangel, mangel, tangel, angel -no, that’s already used. Hmmm. Furrowing your brow, you think harder. Ok, what’s beautiful and peaceful? A cloud, a wave, a dove… That’s it! A dove, yeah, that sounds rhymeable. Let’s see, sove, ove, cove -no, that’s pronounced differently-, love. You almost feel like slapping your forehead for not thinking of that right away. Ok, dove and love. You stare into empty space for a moment: what do you do with this? Not necessarily being a poet, the notion of what to do escapes you. Come on, think Anon, how did you pass the poetry portion of English class… Thinking back on those two awful weeks where you were forced to write a couple dozen poems, the answer hits you: cheat! Er, receive influence. That’s how you’d pitched it to your teacher: you wrote in the style of… well, you can’t remember of any names, but you told her you borrowed styles. Ok, now you just gotta do the same.
Only you can’t think of any poems. The moment that class had ended, you’d shrugged off everything you learned. After all, you never thought you’d need it. Unfortunately, you thought as you kicked yourself, you did need it, and definitely soon. You furrow your brow some more, hoping to summon some of the wisdom that always seemed to dwell in furrowed brows. Nothing happened. Okay, what was the last poem you read? Well, what’s a poem? You almost sidetrack yourself, but are saved by the sudden remembrance of a very recently read poem. One of your friends had posted it on her Tumblr or whatever. She was kinda cute, so you went about your routine of reading the mushy stuff she posted and mildly hoped it could be about you. Ahem. You cough, and try to forget the embarrassing habit. Back to the poem. Alright, it went something like this:
“Peggy Blooms our prettiest lass, her blush is like morning, rosy dawn, something grass, something gems adorning –‘with rosy gems?’ No, that’s not it. ‘With shiny gems?’ Huh. Well, you’d come up with something-. Her eyes outshine the shiny beams, that something the something shower, something streams, something something flower.” You mumble the words to help yourself recall what it was, barely even able to hear yourself. Only the faint melody can be heard by Apple Bloom, who thinks you’re whispering some soft song. She smiles and curls into you further, pressing her body into yours. You frown slightly, unsatisfied with the low success of your memory. Still, it’s something to work with. 
Ok, time to start crafting. The first line’s easy enough: Apple Bloom is the prettiest lass. Her blush is like the morning; you could keep it, but you aren’t that enamored with her blush. It’s cute, yeah, and her rosy cheeks are beautiful, but you could do better. Looking down at the pretty girl, you’re struck with inspiration: her smile and hair are both as gorgeous as the waking morning. Seeing the sky begin to sear, pinks and reds setting the stage for the coming yellow, you take in a deep breath. How could this be so beautiful? You look down at your muse, whose beauty matches the newly born day. How could she be this beautiful? Your hand repositions itself so you can stroke her hair, feeling the soft reds flow through it. There was a lightness in her hair that seemed to match the crimson sky, and you choose to name her hair in this line. What after this, something grass and then gems adorning? How about ‘soft as grass -leaning on the last line- and then staying stars adorning, since the faints bodies of stars still remained above you.
Apple Bloom’s the prettiest lass,/ her hair is like the morning;/ a rosy dawn, soft as grass,/ with staying stars adorning. Okay, not bad so far. Her eyes outshine; what? The stars? No, you said that. The sun? Nah, that’s not great. How about ‘the golden beams?’ The next lines about the shower, or a shower or something; you can scrap that. Her eyes outshine the golden beams, and... ok, put in the dove-love thing. It’s your poem; or at least, it could be if you change it enough. Her eyes outshine the golden beams, her gaze a restful dove. Nope, that’s super dumb-sounding. Outshine the golden beams, as peaceful as a dove. Yeah, that’ll work: just two lines to go. Something about streams, then a flower. Except flower’s gotta be dove, since you took out ‘shower.’ Man, who takes about a shower in a poem?
The morning’s beginning to dissolve, you better hurry this up. Ok, ok, something about streams. You still want to talk about lips, so maybe that? Her hips- ahem, her lips- are like crimson streams. Like small crimson streams? Doesn’t feel right. Ok, what do streams do? Flow, rush. Ok, flow always means things work together, or something like that. Maybe ‘her face flowed like a perfect stream?’ Fuck, this was feeling weird as heck. Was there another word? Dream! Um, her lips from a dream. From a wild dream. From my wildest dream! From beyond- nah, it’s good like it is. Ok, only thing left’s love. Thus’ the vision of my dearest love. The girl that I so dearly love. Who could give her anything but love? You think on it, then decide on the second. 
Alright, feels like you got it. You repeat it a couple times to yourself, making sure you’ve got it right. It doesn’t perfect, and you grow more worried by the second, but you’ve already made the choice. With the mounting excitement of coming up to a performance, you steel yourself and tap her cheek. Her warm eyes open in response, helping to calm your fears.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she whispers back, cute as can be.
“I wrote you a poem.” A small smile grows on her face, her eyes widening with surprise. She blinks away the last bits of sleep, setting all her attention on you. Your cheeks start to redden, the actuality of the situation making you begin to doubt yourself. If that mild look of wonder on her face wasn’t so endearing, you’d be tempted to tell her you were kidding. As it was, you still felt like you oughta go through with it: partly because you’d started, and partly because you wanted so badly to tell her how you felt. All the words and motions you’d spoken gave some indication, but you still felt as if this massive love within you wasn’t communicating. And a girl like this deserved to know how much she was loved. You cough, about to dive in abruptly, but Apple Bloom speaks before you can.
“Really?” Her voice sounds unbelieving, with an undercurrent of giddiness. You scratch the back of your head, giving her a smile in response.
“Uh, yeah.” Her smile seems to explode, the open-mouthed wonder turning to outright ecstasy. Her wide grin stretches from side to side, each shiny white tooth gleaming in the rising morning. Suppressing her squee, just barely, she manages to make a more or less neutral expression. She bounces in her seat, just barely, but otherwise imitates the patient audience member perfectly. You gulp. Can’t stop now. Clearing your throat, you take a moment to run through it one more time, then say it.

“Apple Bloom’s the prettiest lass,
Her hair is like the morning:
A rosy dawn, soft as grass,
With staying stars adorning.
Her eyes outshine these golden beams
As peaceful as a dove.
Her lips are from my wildest dreams,
This girl that I so dearly love.”

Oog. Your face burns as bright as her hair as you finish off your makeshift poem. Ok, that sounded a lot better in your head than it did aloud. Your expression, stricken with worry, sets on the girl before you. Her smile had once again surfaced halfway through the poem, shocking you with its sheer exuberance. And though it’d given you the strength to continue, you still weren’t a performer. You were glad you’d done it, but it was still a bit uncomfortable for you. Luckily, your part was over; Apple Bloom takes up the natural role of a well-pleased audience by launching herself forward and hugging you tight. Beyond the most adorable squee you’ve ever heard, she doesn’t say anything for a minute, content to bounce up and down in your lap. And that’s fine by you. Eventually she eases up on her grip, moving back so she can be face to face with you. Inches form yours her eyes sparkle in front of you, full of all kinds of happiness. And when she speaks, her voice is filled to the brim with joy, like that pure kind of happiness you see in young children playing:
“That was amazing! When did you come up with that?”
“Um, now.” You look down, but keep your eyes on her. Your smile is almost apologetic, though you know you oughtn’t feel that way.
“Really? Like, just now?” Is there another now?
“Yeah.,” you respond, the positive reaction bolstering your confidence. To this she moves forward in a flash, trying to kiss you. Not being ready for it, you respond a moment late. Her teeth lightly clack on yours and lips meeting harshly, the poor girl having moved with too much enthusiasm. She pulls back a moment with a small cry, and rubs her lip. Concern dripping from her voice, you ask her:
“Hey, are you okay?” She takes another minute to massage her lip, then smiles at you. Just a little mistake from a girl new to kissing, you think to yourself. This time she moves in slower, being more cautious than necessary. Your lips meet, and immediately her tongue requests entrance. You’re a bit confused, not sure why she liked it so much, but returning the kiss nonetheless. As if you could ever deny this. She holds you tight, grabbing your shoulders to pull you in as much as she can. After several uncountable minutes, she lets off, still having that excited, buoyant look. She bites her lip as she looks up at you, her hands still on your shoulders:
“Thanks.” By now, you’re grinning widely, never having expected that passionate a reaction. She sighs contentedly, then looks away, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. You feel the same: there were a lot of perfect moments in this past week, but this was definitely one of your favorites. Apple Bloom notices the bowls, then brings them to your attention. “Hey, we should probably get these in the dishwasher before AJ comes down,” she remarks with a sly smile.
“Yeah, probably.” You’re still a little dazed from the previous outpouring, but get her drift. She stands, picking up both of the bowls. As you rise, you note the sudden absence of rain and darkness from the sky. It’s quiet, the dull pounding stopped long ago. The sky’s turned mostly red and yellow, the sun almost finishing its rise. When did that happen? There’s a little bit of disappointment over not having watched the sun rise, but upon realizing what you were doing instead, you don’t pay it any mind. After all, you’d just compared your love to the morning, as something even better; why wouldn’t her kiss take priority over the sunrise? The two of you stroll back into the house, the remaining water still sloshing under your feet. She opens the sliding glass door, letting you enter first. 
“You know, Ah’ve never been given a poem before.” Both of you arrive at the dishwasher, and open it up.
“No way.” She tosses her head back, thinking carefully.
“Well, I guess if you count all the little cards Ah got for valentine’s day, way back in elementary school, Ah guess there’s been a couple dozen before you. Not a proper poem, though.” A spark of cheer and understanding appear simultaneously; you get why she was so appreciative just now, as well as feel kind of happy to be the first one to give that to her. There was something special about being her first boyfriend, giving her her first French kiss, and all those other little things she’d never done with anyone else. It made you feel special. Of course, it was nice that you still had some part in what she was feeling: you’d never really given any girl a poem before. Realizing that she might like hearing that, you tell her:
“That’s the first time I’ve given a girl a poem.” This time, the surprise is on her end, and she whirls toward you.
“Are you serious?” She seems almost incredulous, as if she expected you to do this regularly. 
“Um, yeah? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly a pro at this.” She turns back to the dishwasher, putting her bowl in.
“Sounded pretty good to me,” she says with a nodding smile. Turning around to grab your bowl and place it next to hers, she continues her thought. “You seem like the kinda guy that can get pretty romantic. And Ah’m guessing you were pretty popular with the ladies back in the city.” There’s a twinge of jealousy and sadness in her voice, but the ridiculousness of the assumption blinds you to it. You burst into chuckles, covering your mouth with your hand. When she looks at you, her expression is once more filled with perplexity. “Ah don’t get it.” After laughing a moment longer, you stare at her in wonder:
“What on earth makes you think I’m popular with the ladies?” Her head moves back in astonishment, then she proceeds to map out the attractive aspects of you as if it were evident to everybody around.
“Um, you’re kind, you’re funny, you’re dependable, you’re pretty strong, you’re really handsome” -her eyes rise to your face at this one, and linger for a moment before continuing- “you’re smart, you do cool stuff, oh, and Ah don’t know, YA WROTE AND READ A POEM TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND.” Her voice sounds a like a kindergarten teacher pointing out the obvious, rising in vigor. At the end, her eyes bug out and she claps her hand over her mouth, not quite realizing what she’d said until after she’d said it. Your heart, softened by the list of compliments, swells at this last one. It was kind of a complicated term, and you weren’t 100% sure how to respond to it, but hearing her call herself that was undoubtedly a heartwarming moment. She closes up the dishwasher, muttering something about ‘girls liking guys that make and read poems. Unsure of what to say, you take a step forward and hug her from behind. You brush her hair out of the way and gently kiss the side of her neck. Before either of you can say anything, heavy thumps announce someone coming down the stairs. Another set of thumps join the first as you and Apple Bloom make some distance between the two of you. Don’t wanna get caught being that familiar with each other. 
“Good morning, guys,” the melodious sound of AJ’s voice comes, still thick with sleep. “What are y’all doing up so late?”
“Early,” corrects the blonde giant beside her.
“Fine, what’re you doing up so EARLY,” AJ stresses the final word while looking hard at Big Mac, who is unfazed. Her attention returns to you and Apple Bloom: “Ah thought Ah heard one a you shouting about something or other.” Ok, she didn’t hear it. Guess you’re off the hook. Apple Bloom covers with a redirection, hoping to lead the conversation away from the shout.
“Yeah, we were just hanging outside, watchin’ the sun come up. Ah mean, the rain. Um, did you know it rained this morning? Heh heh,” she laughs awkwardly, with almost a pleading look in her eye. You gotta face it, she’s not a very good liar. Luckily, AJ’s still plenty tired, and either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the mystery in plain sight. 
“Alright. Uh, did you two have breakfast yet?”
“Sure did!” cries out Apple Bloom, happy to see that the question’s been overlooked. 
“Huh. Musta come gotten up pretty early to already be finished. Ah hope ya didn’t take the rest of a cereal.” AJ speaks, almost to herself, as she meanders over to the pantry. She brings out a big box of something healthy-looking, then takes the milk out of the fridge. Big Mac follows her lead, getting a pair of bowls and spoons out of the cabinets, then setting it up near his sister’s ingredients. Moments later, the scene transitions over the dining room, the four of you sitting at the table together. Idle chatter develops as the party members speak offhandedly about how well they slept, the weather, and so forth. It isn’t exactly natural, nor is it awkward. Apple Bloom, more able to speak due to her not eating, goes on about the beautiful warmth of the morning rain and all the colors you’d just seen in the sky. You add to her story, but for the most part let her lead. At one point AJ, who sits just next to you, asks you quietly:
“Are you ok?” You think about it for a moment. Apart from a vague feeling of unease, you’re actually doing alright. So long as you remain focused on the family at hand, and don’t drift off into worries about the future, you think you’ll be fine. Nodding, your calm eyes tell her that you are.
She nods, giving you a gentle smile in return. She’s not completely sure that you’re alright; after all, you’ve got more than enough reason to be freaking out right now. However, as far as she can tell, you’re not freaking out right now. And she figures that as long as she can keep you from slipping into that, things oughta be fine. Big Mac shares a similar train of thought, but remains silent. In typical circumstances, he’s rarely sure of what to say and awful at saying it coherently; there’s no way he’d know what to say now. Nodding at nothing in particular, he finishes his breakfast and goes to put his bowl in the dishwasher. AJ looks up at the clock:
“6:14…” She mumbles to herself, before speaking louder to you and Apple Bloom. “So we got about half an hour left before we need to leave.” Her eyes bore into you, searching for any trace of panic. But you remain calm, or at least retain the appearance of such; a bolt of terror arced through you at the notion. You were able to keep your expression still for the moment, and somewhat calm yourself down. You don’t want to realize that you’re hanging by a thread. It’s unclear to you if you grabbed Apple Bloom’s hand without thinking or if she reached over to grab yours, but suddenly you can feel her delicate hand holding yours. Squeezing back, a bit of that pent-up stress dissipates, and you return to a calmer place. The sides of your mouth slowly turns up in an almost weary smile, and the other two girls relax. They’re not unused to that stricken look, the way a person freezes their expression in order to hide another, more tragic expression. Suddenly surprise cuts through your features, and you stand up hurriedly.
“Geez, Ah still need to pack.” As the days had gone on, the subtler mannerisms of the Apples had worked their way into you. You found yourself swearing less, and pronouncing words with just a vague accent. Upon deciding this was your home, the assumption of their traits grew quicker in accordance with your welcoming of that family into your heart. With your previously relaxed state and without the time to think your soon-to-be-vocalized sentences through, you fall fully into their accent without noticing. And as you rocket upstairs to your room, the two girls fail to suppress a grin at the noticed pronunciation. Apple Bloom gets out of her chair and runs up to help you, and AJ stands up and follows her, albeit slower. 
You burst into your room and grab a bundle of clothes from your dresser. Turning around, you find your bed is bereft of a suitcase to devour your ball of shirts. Oh yeah, you didn’t put it out. The bed serves as a placeholder for the splatter of clothes while you conduct a brief search for the forgotten container. The closest fails to produce your prey, but the next location is found the shelter of the leather fugitive. You draw your quarry up from underneath the bed and smack the bed with it. Opening it, you gather up the cloth mess from your bed and throw it in, revealing the temporarily hidden apple blanket it had covered. The burst of speed is covered by the minute sorrow you feel looking at it, the odd wish to keep it crossing your mind. But there’s no way that blanket would fit in. Apple Bloom pops into your room, looking as happy as ever, though plenty of that is the product of her efforts.
“Need any help?” You stop your search for a keepsake, thinking that Apple Bloom might be able to get you something. Then it wouldn’t be theft, and you’d still have time to pack. You open your mouth to make the request, but the awkwardness of it is realized at the last moment, and the words came haltingly. 
“Yeah, um… Uh. Hey, would it be cool, I mean, could I like, have something? Like a keepsake?” She follows you through your sentence, piecing together the meaning from the fragments. At the point of understanding, she nods her head vigorously:
Her eyes light up, the object requested identical to a present she’d been preparing for. Without a word, she heads out of the room to find it. It’s pretty clear she’s got something for you, so you get back to your packing. Part of you wonders, with more than a little bit of hope, that she’ll give you the swimsuit she wore on the rafting trip. You shake the thought of your head, realizing there’s no way that’ll happen. Making another trip to your dresser, you grab the underwear and socks before the rest, not wanting any intruding girls to see that. You take out the clothes already in the suitcase, then pack the smaller closes in. Afterward, you replace the clothes, covering up all the stuff you probably shouldn’t show your female cousins. The moment this portion of packing is done, she comes back into your room. 
“Alright, so Ah thought it was finished, but when Ah looked it over, there was a couple… uh, problems. So Ah’m gonna fix them, and mail it to you later.” She turns her head slightly down, then looks at you from the top corner of her eye: “Is that okay?” Yeah, that’s more than ok. If anything, you’re actually pretty ecstatic that you’re apparently getting something she worked on, instead of something lying around. 
“Yeah, absolutely,” you say, nodding your head and smiling.
“Ok, great.” Her smile shows her relief, having felt a little worried that you’d be wanting something immediately. Then, without asking, she heads over to your dresser and begins pulling out the rest of your shirts and pants. She tosses them to you, and you seamlessly slam them into the already overcrowded suitcase. The mess you’d made takes up a bit more space than the clothes had made when they were all folded and properly put in there. Well, you guess it’s closer to them having more surface area or not being as easily condensed; whatever. Apple Bloom tosses the last article of clothing to you right as AJ comes in. She’d turned around to go deal with her dishes -though she found out that Big Mac had taken care of them- and so had been too late to help. As you stuff the last thing in your suitcase, she speaks:
“Guess Ah’m too late to help, huh?” You try closing your suitcase and fail. Repeating the process, you give her an opportunity:
“I could use some help getting this dang thing closed.” She chuckles softly, then comes over to help you out. You count to three, and then both of you jump up and push down on the overburdened case at the same time. It looks shut enough to zip up, so you keep your weight on it and ask her to zip it up. Only half of it gets done before your inadequate weight fails to keep it shut. After jumping up on it again, the bulging briefcase gets zipped all the way shut, though it strains against the zipper. You inspect it, and decide it’ll hold. Luggage doesn’t really burst open, even when its strength is taxed like this; not in your experience, anyway.
“Ok, I guess that’s it,” you say, looking around for any remaining articles and finding none. “Took less time than I thought it would.” AJ nods in agreement, and you sit down on your bed. Apple Bloom comes and joins you, kicking her feet as against the tall bed. She smiles, and something in that simple motion entices you to do the same. Finding contentment in the simple motion, the quiet community between you and your red-haired cousin, you pat the place beside you in an invitation for AJ to come. She gives a halfhearted smile, then comes and joins her family, kicking her legs as if they were dipping into water. The three of you sit there for a while, moving your feet to some inaudible song, one that connects all of you. The room is bright with the morning light and the lamp by the side of your bed, which AJ reached over to light. The main light is off, but it doesn’t need to be on. The amber light spilling into the room is enough, preserving the sleepy warmth, the kind you find when bundled in tons of blankets in the winter. Except for some muffled thuds and the occasional creaking, the typical sounds of a house waking up, the air is silent. Minutes go by in the easy comfort of your family, the cozy room filled with silent comradery your primary defense against the cold at the door. A knocking interrupts the hypnotic quiet, and a low voice asks:
“Can we come in?” 
“’Course,” you answer without hesitation. These rooms had an odd feel to them, something different from those at home. Back there, the borders were definite, hard: if somebody was in one, you’d make sure never to enter into that one. Your own room back home was, by your attempts, made of iron: nobody was ever let in if you could keep them out. Same went for your parents: not that you’d ever go in there, but they wouldn’t ever permit you into their bedroom or your dad’s office. It was as if they were different house in one neighborhood instead of rooms linked within a house. But here, those vicious property rights were lax, barely present: Granny let you all into her room for prayers and that game, and you felt no need to block anybody from coming into your room. It was yours, but you felt like you could still share it freely without giving up any of your rights to it. Sure, Apple Bloom had barged in more than once, but you’d kind of given her permission to do so. And everyone else knocked, and you had the feeling that they wouldn’t enter if you didn’t permit them entry, they wouldn’t enter. That was really something to you, in light of your parents habit of just walking in whenever they damn well felt like it. It was a guest room, but still you had more of a right to it, a greater ownership over it than you did your own room. 
Big Mac and Granny come in, the latter holding the arm of the former. She walks along with him, pretty slow, in a rough imitation of the way you and Apple Bloom walked on your date. The slow pace strikes you: you never really thought of Granny as old until you saw her like this. Like, there was the white hair and wrinkles, but she still has as much pep as her youngest granddaughter. It wasn’t clear if it was just an act, a rebellion against the gravity of aging, or if she just needed a little time to be awake before it could kick in. She comes over to the front of the bed, facing you and your cousins on the bed. Big Mac brings in a tiny white chair from Apple Bloom’s room, which the oldest Apple sits on.
“Didn’t think you were gonna get away without sayin’ goodbye to me, Didja?” You open your eyes wide, thinking her accusation serious.
“No way. I was gonna-“ The elderly lady sit back and chuckles to herself before assuring you she was joking:
“I’m kidding, mister Anon. Give it some time, you’ll pick up.” You nod, unsure of what she meant. Then her face grows serious, and she speaks slowly and carefully, losing her accent. “Anon, I want you to know that it’s going to be alright. Things might be scary, but you are a lot stronger than you think. I can’t say what’s gonna happen. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t predict the things life will do to you. But if you can tough it out, there will always be a light at the end. You’re a tough kid; I think you’ve proved that well enough. And so I need you to know that you’ll make it through. It isn’t hopeless. Do you know that?” The sudden change of tone takes you off guard; suddenly you feel brittle, as if you could break with the slightest change. You look over to Apple Bloom for strength, as has become your custom, and you find it. Another introspective glance, and you find yourself feeling the taut energy of stress, but without the weakness it causes. Like she said, it isn’t clear what’s gonna happen, but you find your reason to push through.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, another thing I’ve learned is that you need people. I don’t know what you’ve got going on up there, but I want you to know that you’ve got us four behind you. Whenever you need help, whether it’s advice or just to talk, we’re all available. We’re here for you. As far as we’re concerned, you’re as much an Apple as the rest of us.” The rest of the Apples nod in assent, and you hear whispers of ‘yeah.’ Apple Bloom hugs you tightly from the side. Fighting back tears, you nod. Granny smiles, happy to know that you’ve accepted the closest thing to adoption she can offer. AJ speaks from the side, obviously uncomfortable with interrupting:
“Hey, um, we should probably get going.” You look at the clock on your phone, and see 6:40 in bright lights. Somehow, the time had just disappeared from you. Still, with the strength of your family surrounding you, you feel confident enough to brave the cold outside. At the very least, you don’t think you’ll shatter the moment you leave their presence. All five of you, five Apples, stand up and head out of you room. Big Mac, suddenly finding a means to express the care he has for you, picks up your suitcase. You offer to take it, but a solid grunt tells you he doesn’t intend to give it up. Again, you feel a quiet appreciation for him. He’s not the smoothest guy, but he’s a solid dude nonetheless. Granny goes back to her room, and the four of you head down the stairs and to the front door. You’re prepared, as much as you can be, but there’s something awful about that door. Passing through with the others, you offer a silent prayer, hoping that you’d get to enter it again sometime soon. Applejack turns to you, a little worry in her eyes as she asks:
“You got your ticket, right?” A little shock of fear runs through you as you rifle through your pockets. Gosh, you hoped you didn’t lose the ticket. Although, that would mean you got to spend more time with the Apples. Right as you start ruminating on the extra time you could spend with them, your hand finds the familiar piece of paper. Pulling it out puts those dreams in the ground, the sight of it confirming that it is in fact the ticket. You show AJ the ticket:
“Yeah, it’s right here.” She nods, then continues walking forward. The four of you march over to the van, Apple Bloom opening the back door from you. The chipping paint of the old vehicle falls off at the touch of your hand, and you wipe it off on your jeans. Grabbing the inside on your second go, you hoist yourself into the seat directly behind the driver’s seat. Apple Bloom follows you, taking the middle seat, directly to your right. AJ takes the front, and Big Mac sits in shotgun. You lean on the side of the van, a weariness only partially caused by your incomplete sleep and fading coffee begging for some form of lying down. It isn’t as if you’re going to freak out or anything -you’re feeling strong enough to take on the coming challenges- but you’re still not happy about facing them. Your hand reaches out to touch Apple Bloom’s and your fingers immediately intertwine upon meeting each other. The ginger beauty besides you catches your eye, and smiles at you. 
“You can lay down in my lap if you want,” she whispers to you, know how uncomfortable the side of a car can be. You can’t help but smile back, and nod in acceptance. A sigh passes from your lips as you lean down to your left, feeling the side of your head connected with the tops of her legs. You scoot around a bit, trying to get comfortable, until you’re lying face up. Your legs are at a bit of an awkward position, but it doesn’t feel too bad. And besides, when you lie like this, you can look at her. The pretty girl looks back down at you with a sweet benevolence, the kind that can make your heart soar even at a time like this. Her hands move to your face and hair, the left resting on your cheek and the right gently stroking your hair. The hand on your cheek is a little cold, but you like it there anyway. Closing your eyes at this oddly placed bliss, the drive by seems short, punctuated only by the light bumps of the road. You don’t quite fall asleep, but that soft brushing off your hair and the feeling of Apple Bloom’s hand on you is enough to lull you into something similar. Feeling the car slow down, you sit up for a moment to look out the window. Your heart drops as you recognize the neighborhood you’re driving through as the same one that lies just outside the bus station. You close your eyes and drop back down onto your cousin’s lap, upon which she immediately resumes caressing you, 
The car slows to a crawl as you enter into the parking lot. The car sputters to an awful stop, and the two in the front get out. Like entering through their front door, you feel an odd nostalgia for the sounds of this jalopy, hoping it isn’t the last time you can hear its aching sounds again. Apple Bloom’s eyes loom tragically over you as she tells you:
“We gotta go.” You grimace and nod, knowing that she’s right. With a deep sigh and more effort than it should have taken, you manage to lift yourself off her lap, sitting up straight. The blood rushes to your head, obscuring your vision for a moment. The fuzzy darkness fades after an awkward moment of stillness, and you see Apple Bloom similarly unmoved. Once she notices your confused look, she forces a smile, then scoots out of the van. You follow her out into the brisk air, the slight chill no longer welcoming, as it was at the start of your day. Crossing your arms to retain as much heat as you can, you follow the older cousins across the street. Entering the building, which contains a train station as well as the Greyhound stop, you immediately appreciate the heating present. 
Apple Bloom clings to you, grabbing your arm and not letting go. You extend it a little bit so she can slip her hand around your elbow; that way she doesn’t have to just grab your sleeve. Her hands are warm, somehow. The station is mostly bare, only a dozen or so people hanging around. It makes sense: not a lot of people visit towns like these. For a moment, the minuteness of the town seems shockingly important. This is just one tiny dot on the map, the kind you pass over when tracing routes to your destination. That was one of the reasons you didn’t want to come here. But this tiny little town, the kind of place you’d call ‘nowhere,’ was where your life got turned around. You give Apple Bloom a small smile, just another gesture of gratitude for everything she’s done for you. AJ continues to lead the way to the Greyhound portion of this little hub.
“What number were you, Anon?” she asks, checking at the small list of incoming and outgoing buses. You fingered your ticket and read the black and blue ink printed on thin cardboard.  Passenger.  Standard.  Bus Number C22-105.  Departure Time: 7:00 A.M.  Destination: some place you didn't really care about.
“I’m C22-105.” AJ nods, then points to the board. It says the same thing as your ticket, though with a more formal title of the city. She just wanted to confirm it, you figure. She checks her watch, and announces the time as being five minutes until the bus arrives. Everybody nods, not exactly welcoming these facts.
“Guess we oughta find a place to sit down,” mumbles Big Mac. Your troupe moves over to an empty bench, sitting down according to age. Tucking your luggage underneath the bench, you recline as best you can. The coffee’s effect had fully departed, leaving you very sleepy. You yawn, stretching your hands to the heavens as you do so. While your arms are in the air, your youngest cousin takes the opportunity to dart underneath them, wrapping you in a tight hug. As your left arm comes down on her back, AJ follows her sister’s lead and comes in from the right. Big Mac looks on with the hint of a smile, content to watch from the sidelines. With your right arm pined against you by the body of AJ, there’s not much you can do besides give him a little smile in return. It wasn’t too surprising that Big Mac didn’t join in: he was a guy, after all. But it did strike you as odd that AJ did. You knew she cared about you, and she wasn’t quite like Big Mac was, but she certainly wasn’t touchy-feely. She looked out for you, talked with you, but still managed to be reserved even through that. 
Eventually the hug comes to an end, both girls revealing their faces after having hid them in your side. Surprisingly, they don’t seem somber and distant, as you’d expect. Rather, they’re looking directly at you, with a happy expression, holding only the slightest trace of sadness. It makes you happy, seeing these two smiling girls, and Big Mac being as happy as you think he can be. Your trip’s end could have ended in tears and in quietness, but these smiling girls and the cheer they were intent on cultivating made it just a little bit better. A laugh escapes your lips, the kind that comes from surprised joy, like when you saw an ocelot sing happy birthday to a snake when you didn’t expect it. The two girls, though not unhappy with your happy reaction, are about to ask you about it when a tinny voice comes from a nearby booth:
“Attention all passengers of bus C22-105. There were some weather conditions that did not permit the bus to arrive on time. It should arrive at 7:30 A.M. We apologize for the inconvenience.” Your smile grows even wider at the thought of having more time with your family, even if it’s only a short time. The half an hour might have been torture, another thirty minutes of waiting and agonizing, but you’re determined not to let that happen to you. You got some time with the most incredible people in the world, and the most incredible girl in the world, and that wasn’t a commodity to be squandered. The pep talk, though feeling a little repetitive at this point, still serves to give you the determination you need to overcome the rising tide of worry. Feeling confident enough to direct the conversation, you try to set a course of action:
“Alright, so what should we do?” Big Mac and Apple Bloom seem to get it, but AJ just looks at you with a question on her face. You explain: “Well, let’s not just sit around here. Do any of you guys know a short game or something?” At this her, eyes light up with an answer; it’s funny, she looked exactly like Apple Bloom for a moment. She turns to Big Mac, who nods with understanding, then looks back to you:
“Yeah, we got one in the car. Let me go get it real quick. Big Mac, can you, uh explain it?” Her voice grows fainter as she runs to the car, and you can’t quite make out the last words. Big Mac, on the other hand, could, and grants her request:
“She’s gonna go get Catchphrase. It’s kinda like… Uh…” He looks off into the distance, trying to remember. Then, a glimmer in his eye brings it back. “Charades. Cause, um…” He loses his words once more, only this time it’s due to him not knowing how to explain. Luckily for him, Apple Bloom’s got it covered:
“The thing gives ya a word and you gotta make everyone else guess it! You can talk, or act it out, but ya can’t say that word, or spell it, or something like that. You can skip a word if you want, too.” Her face is radiant as she explains, eyes wide with anticipation. AJ returns with a small disc-like thing, silver with two blue swirls on the front of it, and Apple Bloom continues. It’s got two buttons on it: a clock button, which starts the timer -and if pressed during a round, will cancel it- and an arrow button, which can choose the category for the round, and during the round, switches words. There’s a small screen where the categories appear, or the word, if it’s during a round. Once the round starts, a beeping sound happens, and it gets faster and faster until it makes the sound of a buzzer. Apparently there’s a point system, but they don’t use it. Hmmm. Sounds simple enough.
“Alright, we ready?” Apple Bloom nods vigorously, while Big Mac puts one finger in the air in a ‘hold on’ gesture. 
“Hang on, we should move to some place in the back. So we don’t bother these other folks.” You look around and find multiple people in the immediate vicinity. Not much, sure, but you still don’t want to be a pest or nothing. You stand up, followed by everyone else, and take the bench in the back. Apple Bloom asks you cheerfully:
“Ya wanna start us off?”
“Uh, how about someone else does, just so I know what I’m supposed to do.” The rules seem plain enough, but you learn better by demonstration.
“Ok, Ah can do it.” AJ hands her the game, and she presses the clock button. 
“Oh, that thing with the cowboys and the Indians, where the cowboys all died!” Big Mac furrows his brow, and AJ immediately starts calling out guesses.
“The American Revolution! American Invasion. Um, The Louisiana Purchase?”
“No, no, it was a guy, and he got killed!” Apple Bloom touches her finger to her bottom lip in thought. “Ah think it’s like a pie, or something too?” AJ wears a mask of perfect perplexity, but Big Mac suddenly says:
“Custer’s Last Stand!”
“Righto! Ok, next one’s a fish, and it lies flat on the ocean, and it ki-
“Manta!”
“Close, but it’s two words!”
“Manta Ray!”
“Yeah! Ok, uh.” Apple Bloom hits the button, then stares at the tiny screen for a moment looking like AJ a second ago. “Ah don’t know this one.” She hits the arrow button and continues: “Ooh! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea!?” You’re already picking this up fast enough -it was pretty much what you figured it’d be- and you shout out:
“Spongebob Squarepants!”
“Yeah!” The best redhead sacrifices some precious time to give you a high-five, which you mirror with gusto. The timer’s beeping faster than before, and Apple Bloom’s eyes return back to the screen.
“A thing under the dress, and it’s all poofy!” The three listeners all draw blanks. “You know, it’s like mean in a small way, and another word for jacket?” More blanks, but the buzzer sounds before she can go any further. “Dang it,” she curses, then passes it over to AJ. Before the older girl can start, you interrupt:
“Hold on, what was that last one?” Big Mac echoes your desire to know:
“Yeah, what?”
“It was a petticoat.” You’ve heard the word before, but you never really knew what it means. And judging by the shrug Big Mac’s giving you, he doesn’t either. Still, that was a pretty clever way to make us say the word; if she’d had more time, she might have made it. 
“Alright, Ah’m goin’,” announces AJ, who hits the clock button. The timer’s set off, shown with a slow beeping, and she immediately starts throwing out hints.
“What’s black and white and read all over?”
“A penguin!” shouts Apple Bloom.
“A newspaper.” 
“That second one!” affirms AJ, who points to you, but doesn’t press the arrow button. “And what’s the really important one, from that big c- town?” 
“New York Times!” 
“Yes! Ok, another name for porpoise!”
“Dolphin!” 
“Yes!” Apple Bloom gives you an impressed look. You’;re not sure if getting two of these right in quick succession is any huge point of pride, but you’re not gonna argue with that cute look of hers. Meanwhile, AJ’s plowing right through: “six plus one, then ten plus one!”
“Seven-
“Eleven!” Big Mac finishes Apple Bloom’s answer, prompting another victorious grin from their sister.
“Yes! You guys are on a roll! Um, the thing the Jensens’ put their wheat in! Big, metal cylinder!”
“Grain silo,” cries the youngest of the group.
“Yes!” The timer starts beeping faster. “Ooh! Um, ok!” AJ stares at the screen for a moment, coming up with a plan of action. “It’s the college that isn’t Yale!”
“Um… Harvard!” Just as you call it out, the buzzer sounds, and AJ takes a deep breath. 
“Woo, we did good that time! Good job, Anon. You want a go?” This game’s getting you amped up; the mild fun you’d had at those parties where you’d played charades is tremendously multiplied by doing it with your family, instead of mediocre friends. You nod your head, then reach out and receive it from her:
“Yeah, I’ll take a turn.” You press the button, and start calling out hints and clues for them to guess. ‘Swordfish’ seems like it should be pretty simple: “A long blade or knife, and it swims in the sea!” They take a moment and a few off-guesses to get it, but they do. Next one’s ‘Harriet Tubman.’ Um, who was she? Yeah, you don’t know how to convey that. Clicking the arrow, ‘grape soda’ comes up. “Oooh! What we drank last night, but carbonated!”
“Grape juice!”
“Yeah, but carbonated. Like a soft drink!”
“Grape… soda?” Big Mac says, unsure of his answer. 
“Yeah, that’s it!” Next up is ‘Hook, line, and sinker,’ which you unwisely decide to pursue. A couple of fish references and hook motions later, and the buzzer goes off without a fourth victory. “Three’s not bad, right?”
“Three’s fine.” Big Mac says solemnly, and Apple Bloom adds to it:
“Yeah, that’s great for your first time!” You offer it to Big Mac, knowing he’s next in line, but unsure if he’s gonna participate. He does, without hesitation, taking it out of you hands, moving it to a different category -oh yeah, you forgot about that- and hitting the clock button.
The game continues like this, with all members shouting out the first words that come to their minds. Big Mac turns out to be pretty articulate within the confines of this game. They draw on previous shared experiences they have with each other -although Apple Bloom did make you guess whitewater rafting by referencing this trip- and other clever ways of acting out particular words. Most of the other people end up looking over to your group multiple times, if not outright staring at your loud show. You notice it, but don’t think to change anything; it isn’t as if you’re hurting anyone. For the next twenty minutes the only object in focus is the word to guess. The end of your stay with your family goes unnoticed, even in the terminal where it’ll occur. Anxious eyes dart to the clock and back now and then before falling into that mysterious gravity of a party game. 7:30 comes and goes, and the game slows down after that, though not too much. Eventually, at a little past eight, the squeaking of loud tires signals the arrival of the earthly Charon, come to collect. A pit forms in your stomach as you’re wrenched out of the bliss, out of the simple fun and back into the forgotten reality. With a horrifying finality, you pick up your suitcase and start to walk towards the entryway. Your three cousins, feeling more like a brother and two sisters, walk alongside you. Two people stand in front of you: some lanky looking kid and an older lady with a poofy hat. Time slows down, each step taking much longer than normal. You’ve got this, you can handle this. The slow steps eventually lead you to the guy that takes the tickets. He holds out his hand and shakes it, impatiently motioning for you to give it to him. Man, fuck this guy.
You turn to your family, and open your mouth. You feel as if you should say something, but the words just aren’t coming. The helpless expression in your eyes is enough to tell them such, and they move in closer for one last hug. At this point, it’s all they can do. All that either of you can do. You stand there for what feels like minutes, holding close to the safety within their kind hands and arms. But the furious snapping and interjections of the rude old man break the hug up before you want it to end. You see the Apples pull back, telling you sweet promises of never missing you, of visits and unfailing love. The moment they stop touching you, a gray lens seems to fall over the world. Your heart stops, and you’re thrust into some objective position, watching what’s happening from outside yourself. Feeling so cold, all you can offer them is a small smile. The sight of them threatens to pull you back in, send you to your knees, sobbing. But you reject the pull. You’ve gotta be strong now. Apple Bloom, in all her ginger gorgeousness, still finely tanned from those luxurious days in the sun, looks as if she’s about to fall apart. Her smile brings to mind the word ‘fractured,’ the shiny crescent failing to meet her morose eyes. The shown teeth look as if she was bearing them from pain, not giving you a pleasant departure. You wave softly, and tell them that you love them. You tell her that you love her.
“I love you too.” And that’s it. You turn around, shove your ticket in the man’s unprotected chest, making him wheeze in surprise. He reaches for it, and you briefly consider dropping it, just to offer him some more punishment for ruining your moment. But you know Apple Bloom wouldn’t approve, wouldn’t like seeing you this way. He takes the ticket, and grumbles some obscenity as he gives it back to you. You take the stub, and put it in your pocket. Looking over your shoulder, you see Apple Bloom crying, no longer able to hold it in anymore. Every bone in your body calls out to her, demands that you rush to her side and help her in any way you can. But you can’t, and you know it.  So you just keeping walking, and board the bus. The doors shut after a minute, and the bus moves forward. You press yourself to the window you’ve taken, trying to keep the town in view as long as you can. Then the bus takes a turn, and it’s gone.
The rest of the ride goes the same way, with that same grey chill encompassing everything within sight. There’s other passengers, some of whom look like they might have interesting stories, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The girl wrapped in a dozen articles of clothing, the dude who got on with you who’s been staring at her the whole time, the possibly dead old men; they’re all sucked beneath the surface. The whites and silvers of the bus’s interior and the bright hues of the advertisements on the sides are dimmed, brought into some grayscale. The time passes in an odd mix of agonizing slowness and retroactive speediness. Every minutes takes an hour to pass by, your eyes coming to rest on the clock on your phone often. But when you think about the trip behind you, there’s nothing to remember, no landmarks to distinguish one moment from another, and as a result, it feels as if you could have left a moment ago. The only thing still retaining any life, any color, is the memory of the Apples waving goodbye to you. You can still see Apple Bloom’s rosy hair, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Your hand closes unintentionally at the phantom feeling of her hand grasping it. But it isn’t there; just cold air. Somewhere on the journey, you manage to climb out of your slouched posture, and grab onto one of the poles for those who want to stand. Turning to the window, you gaze out at purple mountains and amber oceans of grain, followed by dense collections of trees and the indomitable reign of green grass sitting atop miles of land. It doesn’t touch you by itself, but there’s this small notion you have: if Apple Bloom were here, she’d love this. You can’t help but grow a little smile as you indulge the fantasy. She’d stare in awe at this grand picture of nature, constantly changing with the imperious drive of the Greyhound. The feeling is enough to keep you on your feet for the next couple moments, but the strain of the first few moments of your Apple-less life is enough to wear you back down. You slump into your seat, and close your eyes. Sometimes sleep comes, sometimes you just wait quietly, hoping to disappear back into that imaginary world. A small stop arrives, and you take the time to use the can, but don’t leave the Greyhound. What’s to see, anyway? After sitting back down, you don’t move again until the tiresome journey finishes, bringing you into the brightly shining lights of a night in the city.
You exit the bus, stumbling out like a zombie. The giant pack behind you rumbles and tips over under the cobblestone walkway. The blinding fluorescence of this Greyhound building gives you a destination, and you trudge by shadowy buildings towering above you to it. Opening the doors blasts away the heavy shadows, replacing it with a painful, dead light. There’s many passengers and passengers-to-be in the stone cage, all with dreary faces not unlike yours. Expressions twisted with defeat brush past you, their offended ‘excuse me’ the only sign of life on them. A couple minutes of checking the crowded station find your mother not present. With a conflicted sigh, you sit on the bench at the entrance: you don’t want to be here, but it’s certainly better than your home, if only because it’s your last tie -though a stretch- to Apple Bloom. Minutes pass, still with no sign of either parent. Only after hanging your head and closing your eyes, trading vigilance for relaxation, does a slight tap on your shoulder grab your attention. Looking to your right, you see your dad.
“Hey.” His voice is low, barely audible among the mumbling clamor of the station.
“Hey.” You mimic his quiet tone; there’s nothing you want to say to him. He makes a motion to take your luggage, but you grab the handle before he can. His hand stays awkwardly in the air a moment before he pulls it back. He mumbles something again, this time totally indiscernible, and heads out the door. Following him, you move once more into the frigid air of the northern night. Your coat is no match for the air, which seems to reach deep into your bones. After a long walk -how far away did he park? - you come upon the silver Mustang. After putting your suitcase in the back and hopping in shotgun, you ask your dad:
“Why’re you driving mom’s car?” He’s got a little Hybrid that he uses, and swears by its gas mileage or whatever. And given your mother’s belief in rigid property laws, its kind of weird to see him in her car. Then again, it’s kind of weird to see him at all; not counting things like passing him in the halls, you rarely saw him more than twice a month. 
“One of your mother’s parties was tonight. Well, is. Guess it’s still not over…” He says, a trace of gruffness entering into his voice as he mentions your mom. You aren’t ever around him, but sometimes you wonder if he hates your mother as much as you do. 
“Oh. Cool.”
“Mmhmm.” He responds curtly, an annoyed look remaining in his eyes. Then he takes a deep sigh, turning his attention back to you. “So. She said I need to bring you straight back, but I can just drop you off at home instead. Tell her something about you being tired or gross after the trip or something.” You can’t help but feel a happy relief at avoiding your mom for just a little longer. You agree, to his proposal, and in the dark of the car, you can almost make out a small smile.
There were these girls you knew in high school, girls with shit boyfriends. The kind that would cheat on them, scream at them for little things, whatever. Enough stories persisted, and you’d seen them with too many tears or bruises to convince you that they were just stories. But whenever these girls would manage to make some sort of separation from these jerks, even if it was just being dumped, they’d always run back to them with their arms wide open. All because they gave some meek apology, or bought some roses. You’d never really got it, until you thought of your dad: every once in a while, he’d do something cool like this, which, combined with the loneliness from his absence, made you want to accept him into your life again. But you took a lesson from those girls: nothing but pain came from that. So, even if you enjoyed the rare times he did something cool, you forced yourself to remember all the abandonment and neglect. 
As you opened the door and gave him a slight goodbye, you thought of all the years he’d been gone, and successfully stomped out the begins of filial affection. He wasn’t your dad, that was something he’d failed at, long ago. And you weren’t about to let him back in, just because he’d done something nice for you. You hoist your suitcase out of the trunk, and lug it up to the opening garage door. You wave him goodbye, and think you see him do the same from his car before driving off. Before you unlock and enter the front door, you’re met with a silence only interrupted by distant cars. Story of your life, you think as you enter your house and the heavy quiet remains. You reflect grimly on that double-bind as you march up the stairs to your room. You need a family more than anything -this was made apparent on your trip- but your awful parents only make things worse by being there. The rare visits of your dad just make his absences cut more, and your mother… Well, there was never a good moment around her. You were damned if they were gone, and damned if they weren’t. You drag your suitcase over to your room, then kick it over. You’re not unpacking that now. The only thing you need now is your handhelds, which you retrieve from the front pouch. Turning on, you spend the next few hours with your pal Pikachu, until you finally fall asleep.