Aleatory, adj.
Of all the ponies in the world, of all the ponies in Equestria, it had to be you. Why, oh why did it have to be you?


Anfractuous, adj.
Isn’t life like this? Isn’t love?


Apple, n.
Even before we finally got together, apples had always reminded me of you. It reminded everypony in Ponyville of you.

Just like the way that oranges reminded you of your mother.

You say the same thing every time you see a diamond.


Away, adv.
You didn’t like my saying that I was “going away.” You preferred the term “going abroad.” Away made it seem like I was never coming back. Like I would never see you again. I naively laughed at your worries. I didn’t understand it at first, but the way you were holding your father’s hat should’ve made it apparent.

“I’m coming back,” I told you with a sad smile. My luggage was already on the train.

“I know,” you said. You didn’t make me promise anything, because you didn’t believe in promises like that. They were fickle, arbitrary. They were something like a filly’s fantasy, wasted words and empty. You wanted, needed, to see the truth when it actually happened.

It wouldn’t happen for quite some time, we both knew.

“I’m coming back,” I said, and I hugged you.

And you didn’t say anything but held me close, your strong hooves clenching me until my breath held, holding me even as I called your name and even as the others had arrived to wish me goodbye.



Billet-doux, n.
Because Fluttershy and I are hopeless romantics, we attempted to write you an anonymous love letter from me.

I made her Pinkie Pie promise to never tell a soul what it said.


Bystander, n.
You’re quite talkative once you’re in your element.

Your brother is usually the silent one, but I didn’t expect your silence as we rode the train to Manehatten. Both you were fidgeting. Both of you whispered to each other so quietly that the glass bottles bumping in the crate under Big Mac’s hooves were practically shouting.

I sat with Applebloom and we talked about many things while you two were huddled in your conspicuous ways.

“Have you been to an Orange family reunion before?” I asked Applebloom.

“Nope. But Big Mac and AJ have been to some, I think.” She placed her cards down on our seat. It was a pair of fishes.

“Did they say what the reunions are like?” I grabbed another card from the stack.

“My sis said that it’s real fancy-like. Like they have orders and everything.”

“Orders? What are…Oh, hors d’oeuvres!” I flashed a pair of monkeys and Applebloom scowled.

“That’s what I said!”

When I asked her more about the reunion, she wasn’t sure of anything else. We talked about her school and Sweetie Belle and Miss Cherilee and when I turned to look at you, I saw both you and Big Mac sleeping, your head resting on his shoulder, his head on yours.

I suppose you two were so anxious about the event that you tired yourselves out. I, on the other hand, was too anxious to sleep.


Bucolic, adj.
You are the epitome of rustic. Why, even the cows adore you.



Chaise, n.
We went to Quills and Sofas because I needed a new couch. A fainting couch you called it, and you whisked your hooves in the air and abruptly fell into mine while I scrambled to catch you. As I awkwardly held your sunken body in my hooves, the heat rose to my cheeks. Customers scanned over us with confused faces, the store manager eyed us suspiciously, and all the while you were laughing.

You loved embarrassing me. And I was angry.

Out of spite, I dropped you, and then you were the one who was angry. To avoid starting an argument, we spent the rest of the day shopping in silence. You deliberately went to the quills and avoided the sofa section, and the customers deliberately tried to avoid the both of us. Finally, when I was about to make my purchase, you trotted over to see what I picked.

Though I was mad, I couldn’t help but ask, “What do you think?”

You walked around the simple pristine, white couch, pressed it, sat on it. Then you lazily sprawled yourself over it, your head resting on one hoof, your tail covering your front. The other hoof motioned me to come and sit with you, and you tried to give me your most seductive smile.

I threw a spare pillow at you and we both laughed.


Countdown, n.
How many days until I can see you again?



Discernment, adj.
“Rarity, are you okay?” Fluttershy paused and looked down at her teacup. She lifted it, swirled it around, and was probably trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say. “You haven’t seemed like yourself lately.”

I gulped, but tried to play feint. “Fluttershy, darling, I’m fine. Whatever do you mean?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but you know I’m here for you. You know I’ll listen if you ever do want to talk about it.”

“Really, now? What’s brought this about?” I touched her withers and tried to smile.

“I think we all can tell you’ve been a bit more…anxious, I suppose.”

I took a sip of my tea.

“And you’ve been sighing a lot.”

And another sip.

“And Opal says that you’ve been talking about Applejack quite a bit…”

“That traitorous cat!”

“Oh, Fluttershy, fine. I can’t lie to you. Yes. It’s true. I have been… been more anxious, I suppose.”

“And thinking about Applejack?” the cup was lifted from her plate and Fluttershy took a steady sip. She tried to look at her tea, but I knew from the corner of her eyes that she was watching me closely.

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Rarity.” She cleared her throat. “Um, do you like Applejack?”

She was staring at me now, and I felt myself shrink smaller than a butterfly on her cutie mark.

“I don’t know.”



Distance, n.
I wanted to blame it on my dream, on the insurmountable pedestal where hopes towered and died all at the same time.

I wanted to blame it on the distance, on the ocean, vast and powerful and seemingly unending, a motion of force that could take my life and stop my heart all the same.

I wanted to blame it on everything.

Why did I leave you?



End, n. and v.
I just thought it would be better. Not for me, but for you.

And I felt my thoughts and even my heart end right then.


Enfeeble, v.
When spring hit, I felt unwell. My mind was flustered, bogged down by disturbing thoughts, and I was unable to concentrate on anything so much so that it made me nauseous, gave me palpitations, and hallucinations. Even Opal noticed I wasn’t myself and spent the day curled up by my side. I thought I was just feeing out of it, maybe it was a sort of hay fever or perhaps a type of fashionista’s block or just simply a bad day.

It wasn’t.

It went on for weeks. Fluttershy noticed it first.


Fabricate, v.
I am not like you. I can spin a lie as easily as weaving a thread. I can add layers together, cloths and fabrics of all types that seem so opposite and contrite, yet put together, will look like one cohesive unit on a dress.

I can lie. And I can lie quite well.

I just can’t lie to you.


Faux pas, n.
You make them all the time at parties. Little things. Telling embarrassing stories about us, or me, rather. Talking about things that other ponies have no idea.

Then there are the bigger things. Your mannerisms. Your snark replies. Sometimes bringing up something inappropriate.

I thought you brought me because they were Manehattenites. I thought you brought me so that I would correct you if you made a mistake or embarrassed yourself. I wasn’t entirely wrong. You weren’t ashamed to be yourself, but something was holding you back.

You and your brother and sister in that room seemed quite the anomaly. Your cousins didn’t know what to think. Perhaps because you were acting proper. Perhaps because you cleaned up nicely. Perhaps because you’re beauty was the center of attention. You painted the rustic lifestyle in such a way that it exemplified beauty and a simple charm and yet it was something that you could only find in a picture. It was something that couldn’t truly exist. Something like your mother, you told me at the party. You said you wanted to understand your mother.

You swore that they kept looking at me, licking their lips, staring at my tail. They weren’t like the cousins from your Apple side. Those cousins knew that you weren’t to be messed with. These cousins looked where they wanted, but I was only looking at you. And you kept looking at your Aunt Orange.

You two talked afterwards. I’m not really sure what the discussion was about. I asked you afterward, if you enjoyed the reunion, but I never asked you if you found your answers. They were yours and your family’s. I am just a bystander.


Fancy, n.
You surprised me when you showed up in Prance. You had flowers in your mouth, and Pinkie was behind you holding a bundle of oversized multi-colored balloons. You even had on that stunning dress I made you wear on our anniversary, something you kept nitpicking and fussing over, but you wore it now for me.

I wrapped my hooves around you—of course, with Pinkie there, she grabbed the both of us and made it group hug.

And then I kissed you. After, the three of us had dinner and started talking about Prance and Ponyville and what I had seen and done in those first few months and how the crops were and everything else that probably seemed so mundane, but it was familiar and I missed it. And I missed kissing you even more. Pinkie, more or less polite, looked away, but I know she had an enlarged beam on her face and was most likely laughing to herself or the waiter, but we didn’t care. We didn’t mind. We were together, at least for now.

And then I woke up.



Greed, n.
I thought about leaving you not once or even twice, but many times. You knew this already, I’m sure.
I think I was afraid of being with you because I wanted more and more of you. Because eventually, I wanted all of you. You made me feel something… something foreign. I think I know now how Spike felt that one day, long ago. How he and other dragons can’t help but build hoards to keep their treasures to themselves.

It frightened me. Sometimes, it still frightens me, the way I feel about you.

The way I don’t want to share.



Hope, n.
Sometimes it clings to you and it kills you all the same.



Ingenuity, n.
Dear Rarity, I must say that I greatly enjoyed you and your dear Applejack’s attendance at Coco Pommel’s party a few days ago—and let me tell you, your Applejack certainly has a steel hoof! But I’m writing to you in regards to those extraordinary designs and swatch palettes you showed me. I have an upcoming show in Stalliongrad, and then in Prance, and I happened to have an open spot at my design firm. I must warn you though that it’s an intern opening, and though I understand if you’re unable to, I’d love it if you could join my team for a few months to help collaborate on a few pieces. Hoping to hear from you.

Sincerely, Dapper Hat


Impetuous, adj.
You were flustered and I was mortified. And we both sat on the floor of my boutique in silence.

You spoke first. “So, uh, I guess that, um, explains a lot. You…you don’t hate me then?” I wanted to smack you and kiss you at the same time.

“No. As, ahem, you can probably tell, I don’t.”

“So, well… what now?”

“What now, is what I should have done a long time ago. Something Fluttershy kept telling me to do, something I kept telling myself to do, but I ignored.” I took a deep breath. “What now is that I finally tell you, how much I’ve fallen for you.”

“Or you can just kiss me again.”


Inextricable, adj.
“Are you going to go?” I could hear the upset in your voice.

“I don’t know, Applejack. But this… this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. If I pass this up. I mean, I know I’ve designed for princesses, but this is helping with an actual line and…”

“So, you’re leaving.”

“Applejack, please, I don’t—”

“Stop making this complicated, Rarity! You already know what you’re gonna do. You’re already out the door. Might as well start packing your bags right now!”

“That’s not fair! I need to see to my shop and my sister and—”

“And you’re still gonna leave. You said it yourself. It’s a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity’ and I know you, Rarity. I know you. You’re gonna take it no matter what any of us says. No matter what I say.”


Itinerant, n. and adj.
The fashion world is always moving forward. I moved from place to place after Dapper Hat’s show. Going here and there, designing for him and her. Moving. Always moving. And always finding someplace to move to. I was quite thankful, actually. I needed to distract myself from thoughts of you.



Jewel, n.
I am a gem finder. A jewel expert, though I’m certainly not a diamantaire.

You are the apple expert. A farmer. A cultivator for everything apple-related.

That is the natural way of things. It is the way of our cutie marks.

I was in love with Trenderhoof. He’s not an earth pony, but he knew and loved the lands far and wide, and he had a keen eye for detail. And he was in love with you.

I was heartbroken. But then a jewel appeared in front of me. It certainly didn’t look like a jewel. It was a pretender. A fake. But long after Trenderhoof left, I realized the mine of my mind had been plundered. I am a jewel finder, but how long has this jewel been hidden? It was hidden by famous faces, and repugnant beasts. Or perhaps it was hidden under that hat all this time. Unpolished. Brash. Quite uncouth. But still, as beautiful as a diamond.



Kismet, n.
We all knew each other. We were acquaintances, just the slightest definition of friends. Twilight Sparkle came into our lives that day and changed everything, changed all of us for the better.

But if she had never arrived, would we have even noticed each other?



Laconic, adj.
“Aww, Rarity. Daffodils are my favorite. How’d you know?”

Your brother is a stallion of few words, but he’s always willing to share some ways to make you smile.


Love, n. and v.
I don’t think anypony in the world can truly comprehend what this means.


Lucidity, n.
Twilight rambles. Fluttershy is too polite and meek. Pinkie Pie has no filter. And Rainbow scoots along the discussion sometimes even ignoring everything altogether. And though I know I’m hardly perfect—you, in fact, claim I’m worst than the rest. That I’m wishy-washy and selfish and that I articulate too much. And actually, I’m still unsure if that was a joke or if it was the truth…

I know you mean exactly what you say and say exactly what you mean. I know that you’re honest, in and out, sometimes too honest for your own good. But in spite of this, this is also what you expect from me, and I know it’s what I must give you. I know that’s all you deserve.

And that’s why, when you asked me if I was okay, I could only shake my head and try to gather my thoughts. And though I was crying a little bit, you let me speak without interrupting. If I were in your horseshoes, I would most certainly try to stop you from speaking. I would gather you in my arms, and hold you tight, but you’re way too bullish to let tears fall when I’m present.

At least, that’s what I thought.

You knew I needed to say something important and I told you as best as I could.

You didn’t speak at first. You were probably mulling it over, what I meant, what the situation meant, and what everything meant for us together. Your eyes closed, you took a deep breath, and it was at that moment, that I knew you finally understood. And when you looked at me, eyes slightly opened, ears pressed to your skull, your mouth poised between a mock smile and a frown, you knew I was telling the truth.

And despite trying my best, I know I still broke your heart.



Message, n.
“Hey, Rarity, is this yours?” You were holding up a piece of crinkled yellow paper. I saw your eyes scanning over it, reading it, and there was a amused smile on your face.

That paper certainly did look familiar, but not in a good way…

“DON’T READ IT!”



Non compos mentis, adj.
It’s the excuse I gave you when we first kissed, when I kissed you first. An excuse that you immediately ignored.



Oscitant, adj.
We wander down the hall towards the kitchen, not saying anything to each other, our eyes half-closed, our minds thinking of only one thing: Coffee


Orange, n.
I always forget that you’re half an Orange. But even though everypony else forgets, I know that you’ve never forgotten. You’re always talking about Apple family pride, always going on about how the different farms are doing, what your cousins are up to, when the next reunion will be, but I know that deep down inside, your orange still wants to peek out. Your orange is your hidden other half.

And sometimes, I can see the question clear on your face: “What if I wasn’t an apple?”



Philter, n.
“I don’t even know why we’re together in the first place.”

“Maybe we just drank one of the Crusaders’ bad potions.”


Pulchritudinous, adj.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say. We’re both beautiful in our own way. But why should beauty be described so simply?



Quell, v.
I didn’t want to just suppress all these emotions, I wanted to extinguish them. Extinguish everything I was feeling for you, every thought that made me giddy, every smile that made my heart churn. I wanted to feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because nothing was worse than this aching for you.


Quote, n.
“This is the worst possible thing!”

You say that especially when you think I’m being melodramatic.



Reunion, n.
Over the years, I have been to many of your family reunions. I have suffered through the constant rodeos, the haystack piling, the barnyard hoedowns, and the square dancing. I have attempted, those very rare times, to bob for apples or join that pie eating contest—I still shudder at the thought of all those calories.

Once, I caught your cousin ogling me; he offered me an apple pie which I refused. Later, I caught you throwing an apple pie in his face.

Much more often than I’d like to admit, I’d sit with the Granny Smith’s group where we’d talk about the old times and I’d talk to them about older fashion. Puzzled, you asked me if your other cousins were boring and I replied no, of course not, and said that fashion tends to come in circles. Sooner or later, perhaps Granny Smith’s old wardrobe would come back in style.

When you asked me if I wanted to join you and your brother and sister for a reunion, I tried not to groan. Instead, I took another sip of coffee and pretended to read the newspaper.

“I don’t know, darling. I need to make sure I don’t have any outstanding orders.” You pressed your lips together in a frown and made a muffled noise like you were slightly disappointed.

“I’d be really grateful if you can come this time.”

“Are we going to Dodge Junction again?”

You cleared your throat, muttered something. And that’s when I looked up.

“What?” I said, and you repeated exactly what I’d heard.

“Manehatten. It’s an Orange family reunion.”


Rodeo, v.
You compete in many events. Riding broncos. Wrestling steers. Rounding up the cattle. I love watching you win, watching your smile as the prize pony plucks a blue ribbon on your vest. And then you’d trot up to me, goofy and arrogant, and hug me. And though I still get a bit irritated when you do this, I relent and hug you back.

Then you’d kiss me and I’d lose myself and lose sense of everything around us. We’d snap out of it only after somepony’s whistle, or after our sisters’ groans and cries of disgust.

But though we’d pull away for a bit, I’d put my hooves on your neck and haul you toward me. “Let’s continue this little rodeo after we get home.”


Rubicon, n.
When did it happen and when did we pass it?

Was it those first few days before, when I had finally revealed what I was feeling to Fluttershy and she had urged me to face my own truths and constantly prodded me to tell you my truth? Maybe it was after that, when I spoke to all of our friends at Pinkie’s Party, everyone but you, and I could see the hurt in your eyes, the confusion, and the undeniable yearning for something you knew you couldn’t have. Something, I knew by then, that I deeply wanted myself.

How did we know that things had finally changed between us? Was it when you finally cornered me in my shop and demanded to know why I was avoiding you? And I, quite obstinately, told you to leave. You backed me to a corner of my fitting room, where I magically held the curtains and shut you out. And because you’re so honest, because I know you would never say that you’d end our friendship unless you certainly meant it, I ran out and grabbed you by your tail and you nearly tripped and your hat fell off your head. And with tears in my eyes, I told you that I was sorry and I needed you to stay.

Had we passed the barrier by that point, Applejack? Or was it not too long after, when I, unable to hold back anymore, finally kissed you?


Scarf, n.
“Applejack, be a dear and grab my winter scarf. No, not that one. The other one, the mauve.”

“What?”

“The lavender one, the purple!”

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so?”


Seaside, n.
There are no seascapes in Ponyville. We have a lake, a swamp, and a mysterious watery pool. Water never seemed like an obstruction. It never seemed like a barrier.

You and I are surrounded by water, by a distance farther than I can fathom. A distance that, to me, appears beyond than the stars. Sometimes, I’m jealous of those burning creatures, blazing dazzlingly, light-years away. They are so very far, but how is it that I can see them and I can’t see you who are much closer, and yet invisible to my eyes?

You don’t need to get Twilight, darling. I already know the answer.

While I stood on the Bridge of Morrows, I threw a message in a bottle in the hopes that perhaps someday it’d reach Ponyville. Our little Ponyville, not surrounded by water.

We’re still waiting for it to arrive.


Severance, n.
“Do you want to end it?”

“Do you want to end it, Rarity? Are you that happy to leave us and get rid of everything related to poor tiny Ponyville?”

“No! Of course you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, really? Then what do you mean, Rarity because I dang sure don’t know what’s going through your head right now. Why would you want to end it? End us?”

“I just thought…”

I just thought…


Soirée, n.
You always hated that world. It didn’t even look like how it sounded. It looked like ‘sorry,’ you said and I giggled despite your complaints. And why couldn’t they just say party, why did they have to say soirée. It was the same thing, you told me. Your complaints reached a level higher when I dressed you in a gown matching my own and then I complained when you snuck in your hat.

You said you hated these things because of of the dishonest ponies, braggarts and boasters, not unlike that Great and Powerful Trixie.

You got drunk that night because I let you, and I had to haul you away after you spilled your drink on Coco Pommel—thank goodness the poor dear didn’t mind, but Celestia-forbid if that had been Hoity Toity—and afterwards, after I said my quick goodbyes, I caught you back inside hoof wrestling with Dapper Hat.

We went home. You slept and I slept angry. And when I woke up you were already gone, off to the farm, and had left a note on my bedside.

Soirée, Rarity. - Applejack

I still haven’t forgiven you. But I eventually thanked you for his letter.


Souvenir, n.
I said I would bring you something back.

“Yeah, well… Just make sure she gets back here safe and sound.”


Stalemate, n.
I knew I had to get out of this fitting room eventually. Oh, why didn’t I try to learn how to teleport!


Tartlet, n.
You follow many of Granny Smith’s recipe right down to the spit of her recipe card—you assured me that there was no actual spit involved in the recipe itself.

You were making an apple tart. I helped and wore your apron while you put on Granny Smith’s.

“Why don’t you make a tartlet?” I stirred the cream.

“What’s a tartlet?” You kneaded the dough.

“It’s like a tart, except smaller.”

“Why would I want to make a smaller tart? The regular size is just fine.”

I rolled my eyes. “But don’t you want to experiment with the recipe? Try to make something new?”

You looked at me like I was growing an apple tree over my head. Because it was Granny Smith’s recipe, I knew I wasn’t going to win this conversation, so I just followed whatever you told me to do. Perhaps if we had been baking with Pinkie Pie, you’d have listened to her more since she’s more experienced. Or perhaps if Twilight had suggested that using a certain type of apple was healthier, you’d have put more consideration into what you were doing. But it was Granny Smith’s recipe and Granny Smith herself was checking up on us from time to time, even though we said we were fine. In the end, she took a nap on her rocking chair, and you followed her recipe, as loyal as Rainbow Dash, right down to her singing.

You were never one for experimenting in the kitchen. But I didn’t mind. In the kitchen, Granny Smith ruled. It was her food, her recipes.

You were much more open to experimenting later on that day.



Unacceptable, adj.
“You should really take that ribbon off sometimes.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Why not?”

“Rarity, I ain’t gonna let you gussy me up just because you want to. It's just gonna have a picnic. We don’t need to dress all fancy smancy.”



Vacillate, v.
Pinkie knew. Fluttershy knew. Rainbow knew. Probably everypony knew. And in my erratic state I was indecisive and afraid and I questioned every single action. Should I do something? Should I say something or not say something? I don’t know. The way my feelings fluctuated like a small turn of the shower knob. The way I didn’t know if I loved you but I knew that I really did. The way I sobbed in my room and Sweetie Belle came in alarmed and asked me what was wrong and I told her everything. The way everything was reminding me of you and I didn’t want it to. Every pumpkin shade of orange every yellow thread every red frabric ready for Hearts Warming Eve and even Hearts and Hooves Day and oh, how I hate hearts and I wanted to stab my own heart and I don’t know. And when we talked and I sometimes lashed out at you and you kept wondering why I was so mad and what did I do to you and I know you didn’t deserve this and every angry thing I was shouting was making you feel worse and worse and I’m sorry.

And I can’t say it. But I know I should.

I couldn’t talk to you after I found out. I started to avoid you and you knew it. Sometimes you’d purposely stop by the boutique and if I saw you I’d put up a sign and hide saying I was on lunch break.

Lyra was with me once.

“Why are you running away from applejack?” her eyes waggled like she already knew.

“Shh. Please don’t tell her.”

I had to give her and a free dress just to keep her quiet. I still don’t think that Bon Bon knows what she did.

“Why don’t you just tell her?” Fluttershy would ask me at every spa trip.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

I know I should. And I will, eventually. Eventually.

“You should know Fluttershy.”

It’s killing you, Rarity. Everypony can tell something’s not right. And what are you going to do about Pinkie’s party? You can’t avoid the party and you can’t avoid Applejack at the party. Because then everypony will know for sure.

“I know I can’t avoid a Pinkie Pie party. And I wouldn’t miss it just because of this little thing.”

“It’s not little,” Fluttershy kept saying.

“Yes this is. It’s little. It’ll go away.”

I don’t know what to do.


Wrestle, v.
Why did I bring you to Coco Pommel’s opening reception? And why did I ever let you have that third bottle of cider? Why, oh, why did I leave you to your own devices and then come back to find you hoof-wrestling Dapper Hat—THE Dapper Hat—of all ponies!

Oh, how could I be so foolish? And how could I have let you do something so foolish and so awfully embarrassing?


Whereabouts, n.
When I wandered the cobblestoned streets of Prance or rode the gondolas over the open Istallion seas, I often thought of you. Maybe you were tending the crops now, pruning trees the way I watched artists caress their paintbrushes, fiddling with their tubes and swatches piling, all sorts of paint on the canvas like a cheese board. They made ponies come to life with a simple smile. But how I wished it was your smile I was looking at. Or perhaps you were hoeing the fields, pulling that infernal contraption on your back the way that the gondoliers pushed and pressed through these regale waters, serenading their voices in that deep repertoire you hate, just like how I hate it when you sing bluegrass while cooking for your family, and somehow, that song with its banjo-strumming background gets caught in my head all day, and the next, and the next. Often, I wondered what you were doing when I was eating with colleagues. We’d talk and talk, but sometimes I longed for silence. Longing for the way you held me after having a “light” desert. We’d talk, not with our mouths, but with our eyes, then, and eventually, our mouths, talking with that unintelligible pleasure that escalates when you see a spark flares in their eyes, talking the way you’d talk in a dream or a hallucination, talking and holding back all the same, letting go of and swallowing up every single desire in one unified, trembling breath. And after we were done, after everything was said and done, then we’d sit back and have a simple conversation.

But… Where are you now, I wonder? And when can I come back to you?


Wayward, adj.
Or sisters are quite strange, aren’t you? Did we used to be that strange?



Xanthic, adj.
“Can’t you just say yellow, Rarity!”



You, n.
It’s you. It was always you. Why I didn’t realize this sooner?



zymurgy, n.
I was surprised you knew what that was, and you rolled your eyes and said, “What? You don’t think I’m smart, huh?”

You walked to the barrel and squeezed out two glasses of apple cider for us.

“I know we make good cider, but I’m not too familiar with the wine business.” And after the cider, you surprised me and brought out a wine bottle. It was still in production, but you thought the grapes had a good year and since I consider myself quite the conousier, you had me taste it.

“I wanted to bring some to my aunt and uncle. And I don’t know if it tastes right.”

“Darling, this needs work.” It wasn’t great, slightly tart, and there was a slender apple-infusion, but it was better than middling.

“Yeah, I figured. Well, thanks for your honesty, Rarity. You know, I appreciate it.”

A few years later you had me try it. By that point you were talking to all types of oenophiles, chemists, and even Twilight had helped in its production. I didn’t notice it then, but I found out later during that party. When Big Mac was lugging your cider to the reunion, it wasn’t your cider, it was your wine.

It was a gift to your aunt and uncle to celebrate the anniversary of when you received your cutie mark. It was a commemorative gift, made for giving you the opportunity to realize where you came from, and for giving you the chance to find your roots. It was a gift to thank them for your discovery of being an apple. For realizing that apples were your life, and your home.

It was a gift to them for letting you find me.

For making you realize that I was your home. And someday, your future.