She didn’t care how she looked at people.
The stare she could give —
whether it tore you in half or shattered your heart —
you should have felt honored just to be in her presence.
It wasn’t the look of an evil queen. No.
It was something much more sinister. She didn’t curse apples or command dragons or keep true love apart. She was simply as cold as cold could get. Not even the warmth of her own beating heart could thaw those frigid veins.
But it wasn’t how she appeared to anyone else that mattered. It was her own reflection — an impossibility for her to appreciate.
Everywhere she turned, wherever there was a mirrored surface — the ocean, a lake, shattered glass — she was met with an empty façade. It was perplexing, to not know her own appearance. To be completely unaware of one’s existence within the reality surrounding her.
Eventually, she no longer dared to steal a glimpse at the pond’s surface. Or in the stillness of someone else’s gaze. It was as if she didn’t exist. Far from relevant. Far from something worth noticing.
She was ready to forget her existence entirely. The world around her already had.
One day, she walked through the tall grass, the blades tickling her ankles. She looked down and saw a dandelion. She knelt beside it.
Oh, how I wish I could be seen, she thought. Maybe this wish upon a dandelion will be my answer.
She studied it. It was full, as if swollen with promise, whispering the assurance of being noticed. Being recognized. Being someone with a reflection.
She placed her thumb and forefinger around the stem to pluck it.
And then the wind wrapped around her.
Her hair whipped wildly, tossing and turning, and she hurriedly cupped her hands around the dandelion to preserve her wish — her wish to finally be seen.
The wind stopped at once.
Perplexed, she reached to pluck it again, and again the wind rose up in protest. Again, she protected the flower. Her wish for a face. Her wish to be seen. But each time she moved to pluck it, nature revolted.
She couldn’t understand it.
At last, she decided to leave well enough alone.
And with that, she surrendered her wish. She rose from the ground and walked away, defeated. Past the clover patches. Past all the other dandelions. She glanced back once and thought, Well, maybe one could be spared.
Her heart singed. She grabbed at her chest.
She walked past the pond toward home and, hopelessly, leaned over to peer into it. Still, she saw nothing but the clouds above.
She let out a deep sigh.
Well, okay. That was my last hope, she thought.
But one day, something changed.
She was pouring herself a glass of wine, ready to drown in her sorrows, when her own features entered her field of view.
No. That couldn’t be right.
She carefully tilted the crystal forward and back. To and fro. She stared, unable to understand.
Maybe, like the dandelion, she too was a wildflower — bold and audacious enough to grow in the wild yet hopelessly overlooked and mindlessly plucked by the thoughtlessness of the world around her.
And maybe she too would be spared, like the wildflower begging the wind for one more wish.
