She dreams in full sentences, speaking but a few words as the rest get caught in the riptide. Her masterpiece still unwritten. Symphony unsung. Sonnet stifled. She has every ingredient— but no fire to burn. No pot to hold. No hands to help. And somewhere out there is a boy. An echo of what should have been— A jest unfinished by fate. What if the absence was the cure? What if it's some sick twisted fate born to fuel the fire of toska? What if the loss wasn't meant for this world? What if it was? Albiet only to haunt life's edges— life's latticing crust— as a warning, a silent scream— as a lesson no one asked for? She didn't ask for— I didn't ask for. Simply because it was meant to be so. 'Cause the story said so.