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Description
On the morn of her thirteenth birthday, she wakes up and wonders if she is different.

As she climbs out of bed, something soft brushes her shoulder. She reaches behind her absentmindedly, feels something silky and smooth.

What?

She crosses to the mirror, stares at her reflection.

Behind her, something moves.

She reaches behind again, feels the soft and silky thing. Feathers.

The wings, so white they almost glow in the darkness, move slowly, sending a tingle across her skin.

Am I dreaming?

"Are you up yet?" The door opens, light spilling in.

"Mother!" She looks around, startled, worried, wondering - what will her mom do when she sees the wings?

"Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean you can stand around," her mother says, with that same soft reprimand all mothers have. "You still have to go to school, you know."

School? "Yes, mom, I know." How can she hide her wings in dim light there?

"Breakfast in ten," her mother says, before withdrawing.

She stares at the wings in the mirror again, reaches up to touch them - yes, they are still there. Then she, nervously, finds her oldest shirt that she was about to give away anyways, and cuts two long slits down the back.

The wings fit through neatly.

She finds a jacket and throws it over her back, hoping the wings won't be so noticeable. They fold up soft against her back, warm.

After a hasty breakfast, she leaves for school.

When she arrives, her friends are waiting, grins on their faces. She forgets about the feathers pressed against her back as they grab her hand, pull her to them, hug her. They don't disturb the wings.

It is warm in school. Without thinking, she removes her jacket.

Her wings stretch out, and flutter a little, stirring her hair. She freezes.

"What's the matter?" Her friends look concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she manages.

"Maybe singing will cheer you up." They burst into an off-key, enthusiastic song. Happy birthday to youuuu...

They treat me the same. Do they see my wings? Am I just imagining them?

Tentatively, she reaches for the feathers. They are warm under her fingers.

One of her friends notices her movement. "Your wings are beautiful," the friend says with a smile. "They look so soft. I wish I had some."

She listens, astonished. They see them? But they acted no different when they saw me. Are they under a spell?

Do they just not care if I've changed?

"I love you." Her friend gives her a hug after seeing her expression. "We all do."

She reaches up to feel her wings again. Her fingers meet air.

Her wings are gone.

Gone?

As a friend bumps her knee, she smiles softly.

Nothing ever changes, and yet, everything does.

Always.

Description
On the morn of her thirteenth birthday, she wakes up and wonders if she is different.

As she climbs out of bed, something soft brushes her shoulder. She reaches behind her absentmindedly, feels something silky and smooth.

What?

She crosses to the mirror, stares at her reflection.

Behind her, something moves.

She reaches behind again, feels the soft and silky thing. Feathers.

The wings, so white they almost glow in the darkness, move slowly, sending a tingle across her skin.

Am I dreaming?

"Are you up yet?" The door opens, light spilling in.

"Mother!" She looks around, startled, worried, wondering - what will her mom do when she sees the wings?

"Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean you can stand around," her mother says, with that same soft reprimand all mothers have. "You still have to go to school, you know."

School? "Yes, mom, I know." How can she hide her wings in dim light there?

"Breakfast in ten," her mother says, before withdrawing.

She stares at the wings in the mirror again, reaches up to touch them - yes, they are still there. Then she, nervously, finds her oldest shirt that she was about to give away anyways, and cuts two long slits down the back.

The wings fit through neatly.

She finds a jacket and throws it over her back, hoping the wings won't be so noticeable. They fold up soft against her back, warm.

After a hasty breakfast, she leaves for school.

When she arrives, her friends are waiting, grins on their faces. She forgets about the feathers pressed against her back as they grab her hand, pull her to them, hug her. They don't disturb the wings.

It is warm in school. Without thinking, she removes her jacket.

Her wings stretch out, and flutter a little, stirring her hair. She freezes.

"What's the matter?" Her friends look concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she manages.

"Maybe singing will cheer you up." They burst into an off-key, enthusiastic song. Happy birthday to youuuu...

They treat me the same. Do they see my wings? Am I just imagining them?

Tentatively, she reaches for the feathers. They are warm under her fingers.

One of her friends notices her movement. "Your wings are beautiful," the friend says with a smile. "They look so soft. I wish I had some."

She listens, astonished. They see them? But they acted no different when they saw me. Are they under a spell?

Do they just not care if I've changed?

"I love you." Her friend gives her a hug after seeing her expression. "We all do."

She reaches up to feel her wings again. Her fingers meet air.

Her wings are gone.

Gone?

As a friend bumps her knee, she smiles softly.

Nothing ever changes, and yet, everything does.

Always.