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With each passerby, a new life entered her story. Embracing a sense of sonder that once left her feeling isolated and divided, she now allowed them to eviscerate her fragmented walls of perception. She invited them to dine with her on the finest cuisine, extending an open hand to an alternate reality—acknowledging that she, too, is just a main character in her own story, passing by everyone else.

The question that often infiltrated her sensibilities and disrupted her calm prose was this: did she truly allow them in, or did she push them aside? Would she allow the screen of her own screenplay to lie still and silent long enough to hold the curtain before it falls, inviting the effervescence of another’s light to join with her own?

As they leave the table of their own dining, now forever a part of her story, she wondered how they would dine with one another in memory. Would the relationship be remembered as an easy tale, shared across countless dining rooms? Or would it be distorted into smaller, darker realms where disgust is plentiful and nightmares torment the sleeping child—coated in a memory that belongs first to another, and now to himself.

How intertwined the two remain, until she learns to let it in, and then let it go. The world doesn’t applaud this. In fact, applause and validation are replaced by emptiness. But it is an emptiness that brings a great reward—a wonderful famine no longer starved for affection; it is the temptress called home.