Wendy

Taylor Swift once said in a song, “The goddess of timing once found us beguiling."

Her ribs were right, the goddess was lying. 

But in this story, you’re Peter, and I’m your Wendy. The goddess of timing wasn’t kind to us. She hid her mysteries beneath a blinding light — one I could never understand. No matter how I wracked my brain, turned it upside down, and sifted through every thought, I couldn’t find an answer to my questions.

My ink flowed steadily, tracing the line of our story — sure and unwavering. You said yours did too, but it was broken — a fragmented line that left spaces in the middle... spaces I could never fill for you.

I wished I could draw between those lines, to complete our chapter. I wished I could lend you ink — to pour life into the vacant parts of your story and fill the silence of your pauses. Maybe I tried. No — I did. But I learned I could never write your line for you. 

So I waited. Pen in hand. Still. The way Wendy once waited for Peter.

And just like Peter, you flew — adrift in the lost boy chapter of your life. The line I tried so desperately to keep straight proved asymptotic: reaching for you, but never touching. You could only go as far as knocking on my window, never through the front door. You knew you could never enter and stay.

And so I waited by that same window — through days that blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.

Before I knew it, my hair had turned white.

The lamp by the window — once bright — now lies in the attic, covered in dust.

The wooden chair has rocked me into old age.

But if you ever come knocking again, I won’t tell you that I waited.

I won’t tell you what I hoped for while I kept the lights on.

I won’t tell you how I longed to hear your stories again.

I won’t tell you any of it — because while you searched for yourself in the skies of Neverland, I could only write from the ground, looking up.

"You said you were gonna grow up

Then you were gonna come find me."

For the final time, I look through the night window.

I bring a new lamp to the table and smile faintly.

I imagine you — still wandering among stars, brushing against the moon.

So once more, I take my pen and paper. I write of how you soared, how you held my hand, how you whispered promises, and how I did my best to believe them. To wait for you to return with your feet on the ground.

When I reach the salutation, my pen runs out of ink — as if it’s telling me that our story has ended, that I can write no more. I can feel the lines, the strings I’ve drawn between the chapters of our lives, crack like old wood and shatter like glass.

Forgive me. I tried my best.

"Words from the mouth of babes, promises oceans deep

But never to keep."

And so, my waiting ends here.

You are Peter.

And I am Wendy.

Not your Wendy — just Wendy.

And that’s alright.

Because, at last, I have learned how to fly on my own.