By now her friends read like open books -- their joys and their sorrows, their strengths and their vices laid bare to varying degrees -- all save one. She knew there was more to the mare than she let on, but anytime she tried to dig deeper, to understand what she hid behind that manic demeanour, to tell her it was alright, that she was there to listen, her friend’s smile simply widened another impossible few inches, and her wackiness redoubled.
So she let it lie. The distance, small but distinct, remained, and she did her best not to let it hurt.