To Offer Cake

You forgot to put the milk out. The small dish for the fairies. Just once, in the stress of the night.

    But that was enough to send them out for revenge. Some creatures have no pity.

    And so they took their vengeance.

    They blew the poppies into your eyes. Brutal. Crushing. Fatigue like out of a myth.

    Only this is real. And the doctors never diagnose it properly. Because they don't believe in fairies.

    Few do. Which makes you more alone than you have ever been. Because you cannot tell your story. You cannot confess to your superstition which turned into truth one bad night. Because most people, most people want to know all the things. All the facts. Before they sit with you. Before they care. Before they're moved with compassion. And very few are moved by a tale of fairies.

    But there's a person. A kindred. With eyes that speak of moonlit revels and wandering nights and fairy rings. That person has eyes that know that you are not the only one the fairies have cursed. You are drawn to them like comfort to a wounded creature in a perfect world.

    That is enough. To get from one day to the next. Until the dust clears from your eyes and leaves the precious gift of fellow feeling.

    See, it wasn't all that bad. Now that the dust is gone. 

    But you would never tell a cursed person that. 

    You know that's not your job.

    You know your only job is to sit and listen. And maybe offer cake.

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