...the next morning she woke up, and did it with a smile on her face. She felt the sun kiss her eyelashes and caress her prickly legs and run its sunbeam fingers through her tangled hair. She smiled at the stranger with the familiar face and basked in his similarities to someone far away. She recounted memories and felt no pain, longing, or remorse. Just the memory itself.
And she realized, she was free. She had pleaded, cried, ignored her way out of her own heart, or at least she had tried to. How could she had escaped from her favorite thing, her memory? How could she have abandoned the prison warden that she loved so dearly? So she had given up. She had turned to her memories and kissed them firmly on the mouth. She carried them with her and whispered them like they were her own personal fairy stories. And that act had set her free.
Age-old Time had not let her down; indeed, his wrinkled hands had healed all her wounds. The scars she thought would never leave became beautiful to her. Her sweet recollections held no bitter aftertaste.
At night she stretched herself out as wide as she possibly could, fingers and toes spread out, knees locked, neck elongated. Even in her dark room with her ceiling fan whirring above her, she could feel the sun, and she was determined to soak in as much of its light as she could. She fell in love with a memory yet to be, and she was happy to wait as long as it took to find it in actuality.
As she closed her eyes, she finally realized what had changed. She had woken up and left her cocoon behind, not even knowing it had been enveloping her in the first place.