Why Fireflies Flash

Don't Call this Love

The descend into insanity, in whatever form it maybe, is dark and lonely. There's nothing surrounding you. Nothing but washed out gray blobs that might be something if the tears didn't sting so badly. They pass by without a care. None stop to see if you're fine. The too salty tears leave behind puffy cheeks, blacked trails and demonic eyes.

Madness isn't just a thing. It's alive. It eats away at the resolve holding you together bit by bit until you stumble and fall into the dark abyss looming ominously below. It takes you then. Slowly wrapping inky tendrils around every bit of you, pulling and tugging and ripping until you drown in the sheer darkness. Innocence and Guilt creep up on you and beat you down until there's nothing left but a bloody mess. Poise comes along then, scoops you up and molds you into something reminiscent of what you once were and tosses you back into the world.

And the process repeats until Depression moves in and then you're stuck in the grasp of those wisps until the end. Seldom is this truly escaped.

In Anabeth's opinion, love is a lot like this. Actually, love is exactly like this. Except, everything is too vibrant. The good outshines the bad, and everything is too innocent. It takes you with its too warm grasp and holds you until you succumb to the numbing brightness you see in that person you've so unluckily fallen in love with. It pulls and it tugs and it rips at your emotions and your heartstrings playing a melody that's hypnotizing to only you. This is the longest part.

This is the part where everything is good. The honeymoon phase is over. Things have gotten into a rhythm you've fallen in love with. Things are great.

And then, your heartstring breaks. And seldom can it be restrung. It's torn forever. And the marks and scars it have left remain healing for an eternity. And by the end of that eternity you've become so numb to the world, it all looks the same. Just grayish blobs.

Every now and then there are splashes of color that pass by and reach for it desperately. But it slips through your fingers and dissipates in to a puff of smoke. You can't catch smoke.

And then, by some miracle, there they are. That one person that can heal your heart and you chase them and you chase them and you chase them but to no avail. But they stay. They stay unlike the last one. Unlike all those little wisps. Here they are solid and real and they're here to stay.

But sometimes they aren't always there forever. Things happen, fate intervenes, life is unfair once again. And there's someone, Pride, or Poise, or Confidence, that come and sweeps you up and tapes you back together.

But only some times, not all the time.

Anabeth can count on one had the number of times she's fallen in love. It's a good thing, considering she's only just past the third decade of her life.

Perhaps she's loathe to say it now, because under no circumstances are her feelings reciprocated. Unrequited love seems to be a theme here.

Before he left, Alfie had stopped by wanting to talk to Sherlock without Anabeth near. And why he was only just thinking about this now, he had no idea, but there was a suspicion that it had something to do with the Claddagh ring now resting on Anabeth's right hand, the tanzanite heart pointing towards her wrist.

Alfie's voice had been gentle, soft, like he was telling a secret that wasn't his to tell. And truthfully it wasn't.

"Ana," he began, with a deep sigh. "About six years ago, something happened. It wasn't anything bad, really. But it's not something Anabeth will ever talk about, she refuses to. Sure she'll talk about Jim and their messed up break up and that whole shebang, but I think deep down she realizes she's truly over it. But six years ago...