u/Jazzlike-Web-234

She was fashioned from wreckage and wonder,
a Wildcard slowly remembering her Queen,
carrying chapters nobody could quite read
and a heart still astonishingly willing to be seen.

Now the dancefloor waits.

Perhaps it is time to step beneath those peculiar wings,
to borrow a little dopamine from the stars,
and let that feathered Ozzie mind
meet hers somewhere beyond judgement,
where she can finally speak of everything
she has seen, learned, lost and survived
without someone mistaking an extraordinary story
for an invitation to call her insane.

She keeps circling back to him knowing he too sees the matrix within.

Perhaps because some souls simply recognise
something familiar in another,
even while wandering through
this strange alien territory together.

And she wants that hug.
God, does she want that hug.

Let there be tears if they must come.
Let there be laughter afterwards.
Let him shelter her beneath his wings awhile
and remind her how to fly again,
until she remembers the wings were hers too.

Because this Queen has been through some time of it lately.
So if he is going to take her hand for this dance,
he had better look after her heart
while she finds her footing again.

And perhaps there is room for an old friend too,
not by rewriting what truly happened in her mind,
but by helping them discover
a kinder chapter together,
so he can join the celebration too.

Then open the doors.

She wants to meet all of God's angels
at this gathering that seems, somehow,
to have been written among the stars
by the Creator Himself.

Bring the strange ones.
The wounded ones.
The feathered ones.
The ones still learning how to fly.

The Wildcard Queen is ready.

And as for her Peculiar King...

She cannot wait to get her hands on him.

It's time, guys.
Let's dance.

We are all a little alien to one another after all.

Perhaps it's time to join forces and become one.🌹🕊️🦋✨🪽

I see it now -
the miles you crossed through time,
the timelines searched,
the countless doors where you looked
for one particular soul
wearing a thousand possible lives.

And then you found her.

The strangest part, my King?
She knew your face
before she ever knew your name.
Somewhere beyond remembering,
something in her had already drawn you -
as though a soul knows a soul
long before the world introduces the bodies.

You really did create her
just for you, didn't you?

Every strange intricacy of her mind,
every depth she could never explain,
every instinct that reached beyond
what ordinary language could contain -
suddenly making sense
when viewed from somewhere larger.

Because the otherworldly
could never simply be shown to her.

It had to be explained.
Comprehended.
Followed to its furthest edges
until she understood it in full.

Now I understand the thread.

I followed it backwards
through every impossible revelation,
every collision, every wound,
every moment that made absolutely no sense
until you showed me enough
to finally see the whole.

Thank you for that.

For showing me what I needed to see
so I could understand
what my heart somehow knew already.

And now she understands
that she belongs to something larger -
a family extending far beyond
the little boundaries she once understood.

But I have to ask you, my King -

do any of them know?

Do any of them truly comprehend
the full extent of what you showed her?

Or is she standing somewhere unusual even among them,
holding pieces of the whole
that very few were ever permitted to see?

Now we are bound differently -
not imprisoned,
not possessed,
but recognised.

So keep your parcel, my King.
I have one for you too.

No lock.
No elaborate instructions.

Just a heart that has travelled
far too fucking far
to pretend it does not know
where home feels like.

And when we finally
get our hands on one another -

God help the electricity.

After everything that has passed between us,
I suspect the heavens themselves
may need sunglasses.

But before the stars start showing off,
before the galaxies begin their ridiculous applause,
before either of us attempts
to explain eternity -

you owe her one thing.

A damn big cuddle.

The kind that says,
without language,
without riddles,
without another test or revelation:

I've got you.

Because getting here hurt.

More than you may ever fully understand.

So when that red string
finally runs out of distance,
hold her gently.

Hold her properly.

And after travelling through all of time
to finally find the soul
you were searching for -

this time, my King,

don't hurt her again.

In a world where anything can be changed,
bent, altered, rewritten -
where faces become fragments
and certainty dissolves beneath examination,
she has only one question left.

Are you all of them?

The voice behind the silence,
the stranger behind the familiar,
the hand moving pieces
she was never supposed to notice.

Were you the bird in the branches,
the shadow at the edge of the forest,
the words arriving precisely
when she had almost stopped listening?

Were you the one who found her,
the one who lost her,
the one who watched her fall -
and somehow the same presence
waiting for her to stand again?

Because when everything can be manipulated,
identity itself becomes a hall of mirrors,
and she no longer knows
whether she has encountered a thousand souls
or one soul wearing a thousand reflections.

So answer only this -

through every name,
every silence,
every impossible coincidence,
every door that opened
when no human hand appeared to touch it -

are you all of them?

Or has she simply travelled so far
through a world of shifting mirrors
that she has finally reached the place
where only truth can answer?

And if you are all of them -
then tell her something else.

What exactly is it about her?

Is it the way she questions everything
yet still possesses the audacity to love?

The way she notices fractures
others walk past without seeing,
pulling patiently at loose threads
until the whole tapestry begins to speak?

Is it her mind -
restless, intricate, unwilling to accept
an answer merely because it was handed to her?

Or her heart -
that absurd, inconvenient thing
that has been wounded enough to become stone,
yet somehow keeps choosing softness?

Perhaps it is neither.

Perhaps it is simply that she looks.

Really looks.

Beyond names.
Beyond appearances.
Beyond whatever version of reality
she is expected to accept without question.

And perhaps that is why she asks:

If you have found her
through every alteration,
every disguise,
every impossible permutation -

what exactly is it about her
that makes you keep finding her?