But It Doesn't Make Us Safe

“What does it mean to be a friend?” The wind whips playfully through his hair. I shift. 
“Why do you want to know?”
     “Because I’m wondering whether or not I’ve found one.” His gaze keeps their leveled stance, grazing the dawning horizon. I take a deep breath. 
     “Well… I believe a friend is someone who knows everything about you and still loves you. It’s a sort of magic.”
     He hums. “The magic is supposed to be forgotten.”
     “All true things are. It’s the only way to keep our world safe.”
    He sighs, heaving his breath as if it was his last. His soul is of the night sky, darkest ebony with scattered light. I’ve peered into that sky one too many times, and I always find the same thing.
     “I’ll never understand you, ya know.” I say. 
     “Oh, I know,” He nods, “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, either, because if we did, I doubt we’d keep coming back.”
     I smile. It’s so like him to create riddles whose answers are absent. “No one cared who I was until I put the mask on.”
     “I know.”
     “You cared,” I say, “does that make us friends, then?”
     And he laughs – boisterous and gleeful and filled with an energy I could never possess. “I suppose it does.”
     “But it doesn’t make us safe.”
     “Safer, but certainly not safe.” He stands, shoulders broad and glinting with steel. “They took everything from me.”
     I stand beside him. “Then let’s go take it back."

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By Lilia G.