spin .

every time the wind blows, life sways a little. the remaining bits of peace balance precariously on the edges as the big players in the centre try to push them away.

the conscience. the logic. the idealist. the heart. the smile that creeps up secretly and catches you unaware before you struggle to repress it.

they all sway with the inertia of an egg whose yolk spins while the shell tries to stop. uncontrollably.

slowly but surely she spins the spider’s web around her fragments of life, hoping to hold it all together so it won’t fall apart piece by piece. the strongest natural fibre must be able to help, right? she tells herself to be careful; try to make it so that the others can’t see.

the boy across the hallway doesn’t believe her. “give me the spider,” he says.

reluctance. she looks at the spider and asks him if he wants to go, but he just taps his leg indifferently. “why can’t you find another spider?”

“because i want that one.”

he stands in her doorway and stubbornly refuses to leave without it. “you don’t need it. losing it won’t kill you. it doesn’t mean that much.” the endless reasons, each and every one lacking conviction.

“i need it more.”

her heart shifts against the conscience and the logic. the idealist is confused. but she smiles, hands him the spider and waves goodbye.

to the boy, the spider, and the promise of entirity.

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