I wonder sometimes if she can hear me when I talk about her. Does she hear the awful things I say? Is she hurt that I want to move past her? Or, does she always exist in some version of myself on different planets with different timelines?

She was misunderstood, drowning in her sorrows caused by a common chemical imbalance. Her friends tied her down and made her place trust and devotion into the wrong deities; she wasn't whole. Thrilled to find a group of individuals who gave her a sense of worth and validity, she figuratively granted them access to her entire egg collection. Time passed and she found herself to be out of eggs to give them. She chose not to ask for assistance, assuming she could just go to the market and get more eggs, but it was not that simple. She needed someone to drive her. When it was too late, she asked for their assistance but it didn't come in the form she desired and so she left.

Did she leave or was she forced out? The distinction yet to be made, either side withholding the truth from the other. She thought it more poetic that she chose to leave. She had picked hospitalization, she could pick to move her belongings from one home to another. Her new home spoke of promise and unity, the two things she had buried deep inside her, choosing instead to let her emotions fill the empty space.

She wanted serenity, peace in the form of resolution; she wouldn't get that. She dreamt of dark figures stealing her away, the lingering memories of the feelings she was attempting to forget. Back in reality, she felt lost. Who was she, without a place to call home? Her identity stripped clean from her; her face entirely bare. The shoes she wore weren't her own. Her baggage searched and handled by unfamiliar hands.

The world she had lived in was not her own. She had had her status taken from her by a figure so quick to replace the spot she had filled. She was powerless to this newly found demagogue, her voice no longer the loudest in the room. She entered her old home a stranger in no man's land, she gathered her items quickly in order to avoid seeing the ghosts that haunted the walls.

She moved and they were gone. The constant worry, the underlying sense of heroism and resentment had always left a foul taste in her mouth. The air in her new place was clean, fresh. All her belongings appearing to have finally found a place to live. After being homeless, she had found a home. For once, things felt permanent rather temporary; she could focus on herself.