finding neverland đ wendy&peter â and we miss the open windows trying to bang down locked doors.
     All of this has happened before â beginning in the night peter pan had been keen to find his shadow which just so happened to be running from him, run from him right into the darlingsâ nursery, and ending in the here and now, where the exact same peter pan, some might say, almost seven years taller, almost seven years broader and almost seven years older but certainly none the wiser or any less childish than heâd been back when he was twelve years old, wandered across the rooftops of corona hills, his shadow this time following right behind him as the pale moonlight seemed willing to lead his way to the darlingâs home. peter had to smile, a faint one but a smile filled of utter amusement nonetheless for it seemed so silly to him that anyone or anything could ever think his feet would forget his way to her window. he was just⊠taking his time.
      With the beat of his own heart drumming like the wings of a hummingbird and his hands covered in an anxious layer of sweat, anxious enough that he for the first time was in fact afraid of losing his grip and falling if it came down to it, with the thoughts in his mind and the feelings in his heart building an inextricable bundle of confusion, peter had no rush of talking to his little bird before heâd figured out how he wanted to say it, what he wanted to say even. he had been meaning to search his brain for the fitting word to describe the depths of his heart no one had ever been seeing, but he had postponed it over and over again â it wasnât out of fear, but it very well might have been for the truth was just as unrational and unexplainable as being afraid of it was. he just didnât know how to start, how to take his first steps without someone reaching out for him in case he was falling. maybe thatâs why heâd always been fascinated with flying. birds didnât need anyone to teach them how to fly. it just came easy to them.
      His bird would know what to say too, peter was convinced of it and instead of wondering what he should say to her, his mind suddenly wandered, managing as it always did to find a way of avoiding what he didnât want to think about. what would he say if wendy wrote it? what would peter pan say in a story written by no other than wendy darling herself? something heroic probably, he would quite like it to be that, or maybe he would come in to sweep her right off her feet and take her to neverland. the smile on peterâs lips widened. he would like to do that too. it wouldâve felt right, but there was no such thing as a place called neverland where he could take her and after his conversation with michael, he realised, he would probably have to take her brothers with him too and if he took her brothers he had no longer a reason not to take the lost boys and tink too. hook, however, that was for sure, he would leave behind.
      Peter skipped, his steps reflexively becoming faster and the distance he was leaving behind suddenly much more. â stop looking at me like that, â he muttered defensively as his shadow, logically, had started speeding up simultaneously to him in order to keep up. peter could feel the judgement coming from it â or perhaps it was his own, but what else was he supposed to do if her littlest brother said that wendy darlingâs window was still open? he was peter pan, what else should he do other than return to those who still believed in him?
      It hadnât been that long ago that he had disappeared through her window upon her request, without looking back, without a hint of hesitation, and though a month was hardly any time at all, peter was surprised to find the darling house to look the exact same. he had expected something to have change â like the hangmanâs tree felt no longer calming with the pieces of nibsâs and his conversation floating through it, and his own apartment felt more restless than it had in all these months in which heâd been back ever since michael came to visit. he wanted the darling house to look like a monster; for windows to turn into harshly glowing eyes and the door into a human eating mouth, he had wanted it to look anything like the horrifying tragedy that had taken place right inside wendyâs room and caused his little bird to cry in front of him â and though he didnât quite understand why, it mustâve been his childish heart, he felt disappointed that it looked unchanged. like nothing had changed.
      In a matter of moments, peter had crossed the rooftops until he was on the right one, balancing now on the very edge of it to reach wendyâs window. perhaps the inside would look different, rid of all light and colour and the joy which came with it, and wendy would read a book ( because they were rather boring and colourless to him ) and be glad, so glad, to see him come climbing through her window and she would smile at him like the day he came back. he still remembered that smile, the smile before everything went south. he really hoped she would greet him with that kind of smile again â only that it didnât happen. her room looked untouched, but not lifeless. it looked as though sheâd just run through it in a determined hurry to find her fatherâs cuff links ( although that had always been ms darlings job, hadnât it? ). peter had to frown, his head turning just enough to catch sight of barrieâs clock tower. it was two, and one might rightfully call it an unordinary hour for him to show up anywhere, but it wouldnât be the first time that heâd found her reading still, that sheâd wake up as her ears picked up the quiet steps on her windowsill or he would stay on her rooftop until she would join him in the morning â however, truly unordinary was the empty bed and the lights which had all been turned off, that he had seen the adults leave this evening and had been sure their children had stayed, but wendy wasnât there.
      Confusion written across his face peter reached out, the tips of his fingers gracing just lightly the window frame in order to push it open, then harder and eventually, his entire hand pressed against it, the muscles in his arm visibly straining, but it just didnât move. peter had to blink, the blank expression on his face speaking depths of the sudden stop his mind had come to â not that there was anyone here to see it. but it just didnât make any sense. once more, he started pushing, hearing the sound of it trying to move away under his touch but being restricted by the lock which had quite clearly been turned to shut him â not just someone or anyone and everyone, but him out.
     Peter could feel it, the way his heart suddenly stopped beating, the excited hummingbird dying on the spot and falling, and his heart was sinking with it. he had fallen three times in his life, once quite literally, once metaphorically and it felt like he was falling right now and whether or not he understood any of them like everyone else would, peter knew from the bottom his heart had sunken to that this kind of falling was the worst, because there was nothing to keep you from it, because you could reach out and grasp the windowsill and the suction of gravity still tried to swallow you. he had to gasp for air, suddenly feeling so empty of the oxygen vital to his life, but was it really that what he was so suddenly missing? â wendy !! â he started pushing again as though it had been a mistake the first time and he had forgotten how windows worked the second time. â no, wendy, please !! â maybe heâd accidentally pulled the third time instead of pushing it? that happened to people who used doors all the time. â let me in !! â the fourth time didnât even happen and the fifth time he hadnât been forceful enough for a window as old as hers to open. â youâre my little bird!! youâre supposed to be my little bird !! wendy !! â why couldnât she have just understood him? why couldnât he just be understandable? all he ever wanted was for her to be his little bird, to come with him on an adventure to neverland and be happy. he pushed again and again, but there was nothing but her name so frantically falling from his lips and the rattling sound of a window which wouldnât open but surely wake one of the neighbours soon.
     Peter flinched all of a sudden, the sound of a single car driving down the otherwise so empty street catching his attention as it was quite audibly coming towards him. peter let himself fall onto his back in order not to be seen by those who he hated the most, those who he was convinced ( or wanted to be convinced ) had fault in this too; adults â and not just any kind. peter rolled over onto his stomach and closer towards the edge of the roof so he could glance down into the street and at mr and ms darling. others might say there could not have been a lovelier sight for mr darling with hearts written in his eyes had helped his wife out of the car, youthful giggles and flirtatious glances being shared, but there was none to see it except a boy with a broken heart who wouldnât, not even in such light-hearted and thus childish moment, find it in himself not to hate them with a burning passion. peter had ecstasies innumerable that other children could never know, but he was looking down at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred â parents, you might think, but heâd long stopped wanting those.
     As the lovebirds disappeared inside of their home, the front door falling closed behind them, peter jumped onto his feet and started sprinting. as fast as his feet would let him he was running from his little birdâs empty room as though he hoped bringing distance between the place and himself would bring distance between him and the emptiness inside his heart as well. it was the night he left all over again â an aching hopeless heart in his chest, a desperate anger burning in the form of water in his eyes and him not looking back, not even for a single second. otherwise, he mightâve seen the light suddenly turning on in her room and how wendy darling first and foremost unlocked her window and opened it after her father had locked it and her mother had hurried her because they â mustnât be too late to the party â.
      So it really is the truth, isnât it? all of this has happened before, it happened again and wouldnât happen ever again for peter pan believed her window was closed now â and peter pan more than any other child thought of the things he believed in to be real.
