It's not all joy. Waking up.
Like giving birth. That's the first thought.
Birth that is agony, this ripping apart of yourself, to bring something new, precious, fragile, perfect into the world.
Birth, that is something she never remembered -- and is the first thing she forgot, first thing she remembered.
The birth of a child she never had, never raised, never remembered. The agony of her coming, and the agony of being parted from her only minutes later.
New, precious, fragile, perfect, carrying the other half of her heart she had in another body now.
But there are too many memories. Too many lives. Lived as different people, colliding, clashing, crashing into each other.
Things she never could have imagined could have fit into twenty-eight years. Such empty loneliness, for all the people who ever cared for her, loved her, loved them, supported them.
No Red, no Grumpy, no magic, not friendships, no love.
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