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// VI – Chorus 
// Story: Closer 
// by Avery Day 
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{ Chorus 2 }


After my talk with Rarity, I fell into a cyclical thought pattern—one that kept me up at night.

I’d go over everything she said to me, and remember my lack of an argument for most of it. Then, I’d try to imagine an alternate ending to our conversation; one where I didn’t feel put on the spot, where I had the last word, where I was right.

The problem with that was: in order to imagine an alternate ending where I won, there would have needed to be a winning move. And no matter which way I sliced it, there was no denying the facts. Rarity was right. I was just looking for someone to tell me to stop, or give me a good enough reason to keep going.

And that wasn’t the only thing she was frustratingly right about. Ever since she pointed out the pattern—I feel alive in the beginning, but quickly decline close to the end—I’d been unable to stop thinking about it. The closer the trip got to ending, the more often I’d wistfully stare off into space, and each time I’d come back down to earth, I couldn’t help but notice how much I was doing it.

Then, I’d start thinking about what happens when the visit was over. It would be back to work just a few days after landing. The next tour would undoubtedly be even longer than the last, and the last one was the longest I’d ever experienced. In a month from then, I’d be back in the studio. And in two months, I’d be back on the road, exhausted, lonely, and depressed again.

Even if Rarity was right, however, my options forward were still much more limited than she made it sound. One inherent advantage she (and everyone else in this world) had was being born here. I wasn’t technically a citizen of the country. Technically, I wasn’t human, even if I’d grown so used to being one I’d forget periodically.

Going to college may have been an option, but a precarious one. Getting into high school with forged documents was simple enough, but college was a different story. Each time I applied, there would be issues processing my documents, and instead of trying to figure it out or asking for help, I just dropped the idea.

Truthfully, I didn’t know what would happen if they found out all my paperwork was bogus, and I was too afraid of the answer to even look it up. I’d gone an entire decade without anyone investigating my inconsistent identity, and as long as I had a choice in the matter, that’s how it would stay.

Other than that, what else was there to do? I could get a normal job, but trying to get hired for a position above entry level would more than likely draw attention to my questionable background. And after having worked food service in a mall throughout high school, I wasn’t exactly eager to return to that kind of line of work.

There was no denying that in my heart, Canterlot City was my home. It was the only place that made me feel like I have a place in the world—in any world. But what good is love for a place that holds nothing for you?

It’s true: everyone I knew and loved lived there. I wanted that to be enough—it should have been—but it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough just to live for others; I had to live for myself as well, and I couldn’t do it there. My choices had led me to this point where my avenues forward were limited, but in spite of that I’d found one. That fact alone should have been enough to make me happy.

But it wasn't.

And, at the end of it all, I’d feel bad for the way I was looking at the whole thing. For some reason, I couldn’t stop looking at it as an argument. We didn’t go back and forth, we didn’t raise our voices; she just told me she was worried about me and why. Yet, from my perspective, it felt like I’d just lost—a fight I wasn’t aware I was in until after I’d lost.

That’s what led me to where I was on the seventh night of my vacation. Staring at the bleak night sky, not a single star spared from the incandescent smog from the city lights. With a lengthy inhale, I took one last drag of my cigarette before flicking the butt off the balcony. My lungs burned as I held it in as long as I could, a sigh chasing the smoke I exhaled. Grabbing for my phone from its place between my breasts, I checked the time. Three in the morning; as good a time as any to try and go to bed again.

Walking back into the apartment, I tiptoed to Twilight’s bedroom. Carefully opening the door, I peered through the crack with one eye. Twilight was still sound asleep. Relieved, I made my way over to the bed, sliding myself under the covers as carefully as possible. Once my head touched the pillow, I relaxed my whole body and rolled over to my side.

Before I closed my eyes, I caught a glimpse of Twilight's dresser. It was the same one from when we first met, the huge vanity mirror now lined with dozens of photos slotted into the surrounding wooden frame. Every time I visited, there were more pictures. Until then, I hadn’t thought to look at any of the new ones. Since my mind was still refusing to be quiet, I sat up, catching a better look at the mirror, the light from the night sky bleeding through the blinds being just enough for me to make everything out.

Each time Twilight added more photos, she’d cram the ones already in the mirror together closer, but the ones at the top left—the original ones—were always kept in the same spot. I quickly scanned over all the photos I’d already seen many times before—graduation day, our first year anniversary in the park, Pinkie Pie’s New Year’s Eve Spooktacular a few years back—but the further my eyes scrolled, the more I began to realize something.

The photos were all organized chronologically, effectively making Twilight’s mirror a timeline for our relationships with our friends and each other. As time went on, there were less of us in each of the photos. Maybe it was just the state I was in, but I couldn’t help but notice there was someone missing in more photos than anyone else.

And as I got to the end, a second realization made my heart sink even further. It may have been six months since I’d visited, but I remembered what the mirror looked like last time.

There wasn’t a single new photo.

Before I had time to process what that meant, I heard a high pitched noise come from beside me. My head snapped toward Twilight. She was still fast asleep, but I kept my eyes on her. Minutes dragged by without another sound, but I knew better than to think that meant nothing was wrong. But as several minutes turned into fifteen, I realized it probably wasn’t anything to worry about. I closed my eyes, and slid back into bed.

Until she made another noise.

I turned over and shook her gently. “Twilight?” She groaned, but didn’t move. “Twilight, wake up.”

“Wh–Huh?” she slurred. “Sunset, b-but you…”

“Twilight, it’s okay. It was just a dream.”

Moving my hand from her shoulder, I propped myself up so I was looking over her in bed. The light in the room was just barely enough to make out her expression. She blinked her bleary eyes several times, looking more alert with each one. I gave her a gentle smile as she came to.

At first, she smiled back at me, but it was forced; pained. Her lips tightened as her breath hitched. I pulled her into me, wrapping my arms tightly around her. Her own grasp on my waist felt weak, unsteady, like she could slip away at any moment. I held her tighter, feeling her bury her face into my chest.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay, you’re safe,” I whispered. “It was just a bad dream. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

When words weren’t enough, I began to take deep breaths. She tried to mimic my breathing pattern a few times only for her to tense up and cry again, but after a few minutes, she finally managed to calm down. Once she seemed relaxed enough, I let out an internal sigh of relief.

Rubbing her back as I held her, I occasionally pressed my lips against the crown of her head. As I waited for her to open up, my mind flashed back to our high school days again. So many things had changed since then, but the satisfaction I got from being there for her after a nightmare felt just as good as it did back then.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her face buried in the crook of my neck.

“Don’t be,” I replied. “You know how much I get out of this.”

Twilight’s only response was an empty laugh. That felt like a minor victory until her body tensed up and the tears flowed freely once more. I held her even tighter, running my fingers through her hair and peppering the top of her head with more kisses. Whatever this dream was, it must have been really bad. I started to breathe deeply like before, and after a few minutes, she was stable again.

“That nightmare really shook you up, huh?” I asked gently.

She sniffled, keeping quiet initially before responding. “I-It’s not because of the nightmare.”

Twilight pulled herself out of the hug and sat up next to me. As she wiped her tears away with the bed sheet, I hopelessly tried to parse her reply.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She cleared her throat, a sigh following right after. “It’s just… lately, I’ve been having nightmares more frequently. And they’re not traumatic like the ones from high school, it’s just…”

A tight lipped frown on her face as she struggled not to cry again.

“I… ugh, I don’t know if I should talk about this,” she said.

I reached my hand over to hers, weaving our fingers together. “Twilight, you can tell me anything.”

“I know, but–” she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “–it’s just not fair to you. It’s not right for me to say it.”

“And it’s not fair to you to not let me help.” Reaching my other hand over, I squeezed her hand with both of mine. “Just say whatever’s on your mind, even if you think I’m not gonna like it. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

Twilight took in another breath, this one sounding much shakier than the one before it.

“Th-This is the first time you’ve been here to wake me up from one of those nightmares a-and… in a few days, I’ll have to go back to dealing with it by myself, and I don’t want to do that again.”

She struggled not to choke on her words as the floodgates broke open again. Twilight dove forward, clinging to me tightly. “I’m sorry, I know you have to but I-I don’t want you to go. I don't want to wake up alone again. I just want you to stay.”

My arms found their place around her once more, my hand gently rubbing up and down her back. She kept trying to apologize and explain herself, but as her crying intensified, her words became a muddled mess of sobs. I tried to come up with anything to say, but I could only whisper lies into her ear about how everything would be okay.

Nothing else felt right. My mind was as empty as the rest of me. I wanted nothing more than to tell her I would always be here for her and that I wasn’t going to go anywhere—gentle assurances I could usually fall back on—but that wasn’t true. In less than a week, we would be hundreds of miles apart again. In just a few days, I would be powerless to do anything on nights like this. Our relationship would be relegated to phone calls and the occasional video chat, and everything beyond that would have to wait for an amount of time yet to be determined.

Staring forward at the wall as I held her, everything around me began to fade. Usually, holding Twilight was something that made me feel warm—especially when she needs comfort from me. In that moment, I only felt cold and hollow. The fact that I was there may have made her feel better, but paradoxically, I was also the whole reason she was upset. It hurt both of us to be apart, but it wasn’t hard to see who hurt worse. And because I was the one who chose to leave, I was the one hurting us both.

Regardless, there was still one thing I could do for the time being: be there for her. Then, the next day, and every remaining day of my stay. Make the best of the time we had, and hope that was enough. Our relationship stood strong against the corrosion of distance every time before then, and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t withstand again.

But as I lay there next to Twilight, my eyes finding their way to the mirror of photos once again, I asked myself:

How much more could it take?