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And then the front door opens, light pouring out to fit the shadows perfectly - they say light drives out the darkness, but to me it only enhances it, gilding the edges in liquid glory - bad choice of words, that - giving form to the intricacies of the darkness, the way I always used to think she did for me - would do for me, if we had the chance to learn, my dark to her light to fill our empty spaces with the other, and now never.

But there she is, this other one, so different, smaller, tougher somehow. Dark where she should be light, and the light from the hallway shoots red highlights through her hair as she turns and says her goodbyes. This one wouldn't zone out in a crisis, the fleeting thought touches me; she's seen too much, been too much, too young, more than I suspected when I saw her first. And I wonder suddenly if I can see a bit of dark in her, if maybe there's a hint of light in me, and if two chiaroscuro beings might not blend more lovely than a swirling double monochrome.

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