#n27

There was an old human tale that Ophelia had read sometime long, long ago. It told the tale of a man who was so corrupted by his selfishness that the gods cursed him to spend the rest of time unable to obtain the very things he hoarded all for himself. The waters of the pond he would drink from would recede if he dared a sip; the tree that bore his most favorite fruit would pull its branches away from his grasp. He spent an eternity in front of that pond and fruit-bearing tree, enduring the agony of his desires always being out of reach.

Ophelia’s mind recalled that tale as she gazed at your complexion. She did her best to remember the curves and outlines of your face and jawline, the dip of your cupid’s bow and tilt of your chin. She attempts to put to memory the feeling of looking into your eyes- the color pulling her into a fathomless, bottomless depth. She was falling, falling and yet weightless, still.

There were too many nights where she was alone, only to use the image of your face to call her back from the rocky, frigid shorelines of callousness and cruelty. Good things in life were not meant for her.

And yet she wants to touch you, anyway. Drink from you. Run her hands and heart and soul against the cracks and gaps of your own. How perfect she’d fit, she bashfully dreams, how greedy she would be, would you allow her just a taste of yourself.

Ophelia briefly wonders if this is love, this longing that burned and constricted her chest, this mad, dogged hate that she has for even thinking she had a chance for the likes of you.

This desire to have you all to herself.

Good things in life were not meant for her.

So she’ll commit what she can to her mind, and thrive off that lonely prospect. Her heart will grow weary of a love she knows there is no chance of you to return- who would love someone like her, anyway?- and the familiar weight of numbness and indifference would take over. This is what will happen, Ophelia is sure.