//------------------------------// // Pinkie♥Pie [PPS] // Story: Lemon Sorbet // by Annuska //------------------------------// It had become a bad habit. It had been a habit before, done out of idleness, nothing strange for a teenage girl (or a roughly-teenage siren girl, for that matter) – checking her phone constantly, even when she knew there was no new message, no missed phone call, no voicemail awaiting her – but now it was a bad habit because she checked for one thing and one thing only. Pinkie’s name. The sad irony of it all was that she had only been able to have two text conversations with her, had only been able to smile dumbly to herself at the appearance of “Pinkie♥Pie” in her notifications for a night and half of a day, and had only been able to think about calling her. It wasn’t that she had planned to sabotage their relationship— herself— Pinkie— that very next day, but she had, it had happened, and all she unintentionally left herself with was this electronic remnant. Unintentionally. That was why she had left the necklace, after all; she couldn’t have handled that constant reminder of everything they had been, everything they couldn’t be, everything she wanted and couldn’t have; she couldn’t have stood to throw it in the bottom of a drawer like it was meaningless, yet think about it constantly, knowing it was there beneath a mess of scarves and hair ties just waiting for her to yield herself. But the thought that something as mundane as having her ex’s contact information could, too, serve as a constant reminder hadn’t occurred to her until she woke up the next day to a flood of missed calls and text messages and voicemails. She’d scrolled through the text messages, chest constricted and cold, she’d tabbed past the missed calls as if acknowledging them, barely able to even glance at the list, she’d ignored the voicemails, knowing that hearing Pinkie’s voice would only break her down further into even smaller pieces. If the text messages were anything to go by, she could just imagine how the voicemails sounded, and it wasn’t hard to hear Pinkie’s voice in her head fluctuating in tone between cheerful – we can get together and talk about this!; restrained – I understand if you need some time alone; and absolutely distraught – I’m sorry if I did something wrong. Imagining it was one thing; she wasn’t brave enough to actually hear it. She knew that Pinkie wasn’t much of one for strict formalities, and yet— We can talk, Sona. I understand, Sonata. I’m sorry, Sonata Dusk. That’s the course the messages had taken over the following weeks. Despite the disorderly jumble of messages the first night, there had been a pattern following that; hopeful and optimistic at first, as if she could get Sonata to come around, still padded with missed calls and voicemails – and then she seemed to pull back, guard herself with cautiousness, as if the affection would drive Sonata further away, still calling but leaving no voicemails – and finally, there was no petitioning for another try, no talk as if there was still mending to be done, not even a single call, only texted apologies as if seeking or even giving closure. And then nothing. And now Sonata was back to checking her phone constantly, even when she knew there was no new message, no missed phone call, no voicemail awaiting her, especially not from Pinkie Pie. And she hated that even if she had never responded to the texts, never answered the calls, never listened to the voicemails, it had been a paradoxical source of comfort. The maintained, one-sided contact had hurt, but it was a soothing pain; a soothing pain that reminded her no matter how badly she had messed up, Pinkie still cared and still wanted her. Sonata wondered if Pinkie knew she felt the same, even if she couldn’t say it. She had wanted to type a quick reply, return the calls, listen to Pinkie’s voice one more time— but even if the temptation had moved her fingers to the keypad or contact list countless times, something else always stopped her; a threat from Adagio that she would confiscate the phone and erase everything, a piercing stare from Aria as if to say ‘you know better’, a glimpse of red light reflecting off her necklace and onto the wall— a passing thought, an emptiness in her stomach, a dissonance in her head. None of that had to stop her, though. Not when the prospect of having to break communication again already did. That was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? For, despite the soothing pain, Pinkie’s attempts to reach out to her to come to a stop so that they could both move on and be happy? She knew that Pinkie had friends who would be there for her, ease her back into the upbeat cheerfulness that was natural of her – and Sonata had friends who were there for her, even if they couldn’t understand why Sonata had fallen so hard for someone who, regardless of the outcome of their relationship, could only be a fleeting part of her life. They didn’t have to say they were there for her (and of course, didn’t); she just knew it instinctively. She knew it when Aria made her favourite foods and when Adagio sat close to her on the couch with a book. She knew it when Aria reminded her of all the things she could do when they had their Equestrian magic back and when Adagio took her into town for new clothes. She knew it even when Adagio said things were better this way and even when Aria snatched her phone out of her hand and threw it on the bed. It was good that Pinkie had stopped reaching out, right? It was good, and it was what she had wanted. Then why couldn’t she stop turning the phone’s screen on, hoping to see “Pinkie♥Pie” in her notifications again? What difference would it make if Pinkie did text her again? Did she think that this time, she might finally have the courage to respond, even knowing that would really be the end of it? Did she think she would stop being afraid that once they started talking again, she wouldn’t be strong enough to break away? Did she think she could deal with it in some manner other than the painful way she had nearly a month ago, without an explanation and without any tact? Or did she just have some subconscious hope that there was a way for them to work? Sonata lifted her fingers to brush against the bevels of the gem hanging from her necklace, as if it would break the delusion. She knew it was impossible, and all the magic, all the power, all the control in the world wouldn’t change that. Nothing would change that – and it was time to stop hoping anything could. There were other things to do, other things to focus on. She didn’t need a bad habit to hinder her. Especially not one with no closure in sight. And so Sonata set the phone down and turned away. After all, this was something she’d done to herself; she’d gotten into something she knew would end terribly, she’d kept it going when she knew she shouldn’t have, and she put a stop to it terribly. Aria had told her to get over it – maybe it was about time she did. She could. She would. Step one had been putting the phone down and turning away; step two was walking away. Ignoring it, leaving it there regardless of what may or may not happen when it wasn’t there in her hand or her pocket. It shouldn’t have been so hard. It was only a phone. One, two, three steps. See? It wasn’t so hard. Four, five, six. It was only a phone. Hand on doorknob. She wasn’t missing anything – even if she was, it wouldn’t mean anything— The sound of the ringtone she had assigned to Pinkie’s number shattered her meditative thoughts and stopped her cold. The half-turned knob slipped from her grasp and the silence that followed the melodic chime was so pristine, she was sure she could hear the latch bolt sliding back into place. Her about-face turn was instantaneous, but had she been asked to recount the moment, Sonata would’ve described herself as existing in a state of slow motion; a slow turn, slow steps back to the bed, slow lifting of her phone, only breaking from the inertia when the message alert repeated itself, nearly causing her to drop the phone. Sonata tightened her grip, disallowing herself to read anything past “Pinkie♥Pie” before she slid her finger across the screen to unlock it— and even then, she tilted the device downward to the point of unreadability. Her stomach had knotted itself up, her breath was stuck in her throat, her heart beat heavily in her chest, and a million thoughts of all the bad ways the message could go raced through her head, intermingling with her attempts to calm herself: it doesn’t matter what it says, it never mattered, the worse the better, the easier it’ll be to move on. It took some mental detangling and a long minute of slow breathing, occupying her long enough for the screen to darken, but finally, Sonata lifted the phone, unlocked the screen again, and read the message: I wasn’t gonna text you anymore but I still can’t stop thinking about you. Silly, huh? You don’t have to reply. I just hope you’re okay and happy. Even if Sonata had managed to unknot her stomach and slow her wildly beating heart, it only served to open space for her heart to sink down slowly; and even if she had cleared her throat of ensnared breaths, it only gave sobs somewhere to catch; and even if she had stopped the marathon of thoughts running through her head, it only made her mind an absolute blank with nowhere for logic to go. With nowhere for logic to go, nowhere for it to stick and seep into her neurons and convey the message that yes, Sonata, responding was a bad idea, and no, Sonata, it wouldn’t change anything—without that, her fingers began to type rapidly, and she might have stopped a moment to marvel at how the device could so easily tell what her misspelt borderline-keymash words were meant to say, but she was far too busy getting every single word out to— The phone vibrated in her hands and Sonata stopped. My friend told me sending even one more message would just make it harder to stop, but I had to anyway before I did stop for good. So I guess that’s it. And... A long, piercing pause until finally another message appeared: …and that’s it. Sonata stopped and let her knees buckle beneath her and sat on the bed with more force than she realised she could have put forth. She stopped and blinked her eyes free of tears. She stopped and she reread the hasty, emotional response she had typed – and she erased it all. She erased it all, she turned the phone off, and she dropped it far enough from herself that she wouldn’t have to look at it. It was for the best, just like Adagio said. She needed to get over it, just like Aria said. That was it, just like Pinkie said.