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// Chapter One: Attraction 
// Story: Harmony 
// by Majadin 
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Attraction
/əˈtrakʃ(ə)n/



the action or power of evoking interest in or liking for someone or something.






She didn't-- or more likely-- couldn't remember the first time she saw it. Didn't even have a word to describe it other than mine. It was her, in some indefinable way she did not yet have words to articulate. It resonated with her in the way it lit up everything around it, made everything seem so much brighter and real than it had been before. It brought her new emotions that pushed away the nascent sense of otherness she felt, even in the midst of what she knew were family.


Oh come on Pinkamena, must you stop and stare at every weed and pebble in the path?


At first her parents were mildly alarmed when things started changing unexpectedly. It was so gradual at first. A small thing that went unnoticed, but one small thing became two, and two became another few, until the small things were not so small and unnoticeable. The milk in the bottles they gave to her and the other, while one remained the same cool white, hers did not. Hers shifted, little by little,until every time, the one she grasped held the same rose hue. After a while, the bottles themselves changed, took on the same tint, and then a hint of shimmering swirls, catching the light like stars in a rose-tinted sky.  


Did you buy new bottles dear? No-- I thought you had. Maybe you just forgot.


It was the same thing with perfectly serviceable clothing and toys, passed down from those who had grown past this stage, of neutral colours. Cream and brown, beige and grey. “It goes with anything,” the parents had told themselves, “no point in wasting clothes they’ll just grow out of in a few months.” Those too changed, blush and magenta, rose and carnation coming to the fabric, splashes that bled into each other to fill the little dresses or plushies in ever-shifting patterns, delighting her with their chaos and unpredictability. And mine again, she said, clutching the colour that she was so drawn to in her arms. The parents chuckled, part indulgent of the small one, so different from the rest, and part uneasy, for she was so different from the others.  


Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt. Just put the markers out of her reach next time please.


And she was unable to articulate the way the greys and browns, the creams and stark, stark white hurt something deep within her. And even more, their incomprehension pained her, the puzzled looks, the bemused sounds, the occasional frustrated sigh -- did they not want her how she was? Would they be happier if she was like the quiet one. Should she fade and dull to quietness, to non-colour? She tried, she really did, but something within cried out to be bright, to be curls and bounce and pink. A new word, gleaned from what she heard. It didn’t seem a big enough word, to encompass what she felt, but perhaps it would do. Perhaps words were meant to be sparing, and only cover a single facet. The other used so very few, yet every one brought smiles and encouragement from the family, so perhaps that was normal.


Yes, yes, your bear is very nice. Let someone else have a turn now Pinkamena. Shush.


The parents decided, all things considered, it wasn't really so much of a problem. Maybe not even a problem at all, if you didn’t make it one. Perhaps this was a 'thing' with twins, a need to be their own person maybe, one of those ‘stages’ all children go through, just as the parenting books said. It was supposed to be a good, healthy thing, so they shrugged, and carried on with their days, and nights. They tended their other children, so much more needy, but in so many ways much more understandable… matching even, like pebbles on a silent beach.


She’ll probably grow out of it, if we don’t draw attention to it. Learn to fit in better.


And the child reached, craved, clutched with every part of her, a need in her that she couldn't quantify, couldn’t define. Something in the comforting rosy hues called to her very soul, telling her that despite her difference, she was still beautiful. She was pink, and pink was her. Pink was the colour of joy, the colour of laughter. She took comfort in the times they laughed, telling herself that this was good. If they laughed, then they must want her still. Pink could be different, but still belong.


Maybe it’s just easier for her to say. And it is rather cute for a name. Pinkie Pie.