Jeff buckley
Just trying to get better at writing.
Jeff buckley
Just trying to get better at writing.
Just trying to get better at writing.
Just trying to get better at writing.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, A place where echoes whisper beneath the ground, The past walks with us, silent yet near, Fingers of memories, lost and profound. Each step is traced by the shade of the past, A world that moves forward but cannot let go, The air thick with the things we’ve outlasted, The shadows of lives we’ll never fully know.
We’ve danced with our demons and kissed the rain, But as we walk on, we cannot forget the stain— The choices we made, the roads left behind, All the dreams that once crossed our minds. And still, we live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, Echoing through time, touching hearts with a finger. And though we may march, we’ll always turn back, To the ghosts we’ve become, and the footprints we lack.
Hail, Ambition! You relentless pest,
The thief of calm, the killer of rest.
With starry-eyed whispers and cruel demands,
You drag us to “greatness” with blistered hands.
Oh, how you charm with your golden lies,
Promising thrones that scrape the skies.
"Climb higher! Climb faster!" you shout with glee,
While we trip on the bones of who we used to be.
You noble guide, you sainted brute,
With your gospel of hustle in a three-piece suit.
“More money, more status, more power!” you cry,
As friendships crumble and passions die.
What joy you bring to the chronically stressed,
The sleep-deprived souls who never feel blessed.
For why sip a drink when you could chug?
Why linger in hugs when there’s “work to be done”?
Oh, sweet Ambition, you love to proclaim,
That failure is weakness, and rest is for shame.
You sneer at “enough,” that loathsome word,
A sin to your kingdom, absurd and unheard.
And yet we chase you, like moths to the flame,
With shattered backs and no one to blame.
For you are the hero, the boss, the prize—
And we, your fools, with bloodshot eyes.
So here’s to you, Ambition, you glorious curse,
Our lives are enriched—yet somehow worse.
May we build our castles of paper and smoke,
While you laugh from the throne of the dreams you broke.
----------- Hamilton -------- eliza's pov
I put myself back in the narrative,
A quiet hand rewriting time.
For years I stood, a shadowed figure,
A footnote to his rise and climb.
He wrote, he fought, his words were endless,
A story woven, bold and loud.
But I was there, behind the pages,
Unseen beneath the cheering crowd.
I loved him once—a love relentless,
A fortress built, then set aflame.
He bared his sins to all who’d listen,
And left me burdened with his name.
My letters burned, my voice was silenced,
The ashes whispered tales unsaid.
Yet in the ruin of his story,
I stood, though wounded, in his stead.
For all the good, for all the sorrow,
I took my place, I made my mark.
To build his orphaned dreams tomorrow,
And keep his light where it was dark.
But history is unforgiving,
It sings of men, it shrouds their wives.
I gave, I grieved, and kept on living,
Through remnants of our broken lives.
So now I step back from the story,
No longer will my heart remain.
A ghost within his gilded glory,
A quiet end to endless pain.
I’m erasing myself from the narrative,
And leaving what is his—his own.
Let time forget my place beside him.
This silence now is mine alone.
Beneath the weight of shattered skies,
The earth ignites, the silence dies.
In crumbling streets, the ashes fall,
A broken world, no voice to call.
a place so pretty, now in ruins. nobody sure what to say. will the world continue after this day.
people work, people sleep. but the world they once had, is now obsolete.
they try to fix it. they try to ignore but this place is now unfit.
they try to apologize. they beg for forgiveness. the world is a lie. the world is a mess.
they try their best to fix it all. but humans, their world is simply meant to fall.
Theme
Central Idea: The poem explores themes of destruction, loss, and the futility of human efforts to restore a world that has been irrevocably damaged. It reflects on the consequences of human actions and the deep sense of despair that accompanies the recognition of a broken society.
Subject Matter: The subject matter revolves around a post-apocalyptic scenario where the environment is in ruins, and humanity grapples with the aftermath of its own choices. The imagery suggests a once-beautiful place now devastated, highlighting feelings of helplessness and remorse.
Word Choice: The language used in the poem is stark and evocative. Words and phrases like "shattered skies," "ashes fall," and "broken world" create vivid imagery of devastation. Phrases such as "a place so pretty, now in ruins" juxtapose beauty with destruction, emphasizing the loss.
Literary Devices:
Imagery: Vivid descriptions create a strong visual representation of decay and destruction.
Personification: The earth "ignites" and "silence dies," attributing human-like qualities to nature to emphasize the emotional weight of the scene.
Repetition: The use of "they try" emphasizes the futile efforts of humanity to mend what has been broken, reinforcing the theme of despair.
Contrast: The poem contrasts the past beauty of the world with its current state of ruin, highlighting the depth of loss.
Syllabic Patterns and Stresses: The poem does not adhere to a strict meter, giving it a free verse feel that aligns with the chaotic themes presented. However, there are moments of rhythmic emphasis, particularly in lines that convey strong emotional weight (e.g., "A broken world, no voice to call"). The varying syllable counts create a disjointed rhythm, reflecting the disorder of the subject matter.
Framework: The poem consists of several stanzas of varying lengths, which contribute to the overall feeling of fragmentation.
Stanza Breaks: The breaks between stanzas allow for pauses, giving space for reflection on each part of the narrative.
Rhyme Patterns: There is an irregular rhyme scheme; some lines rhyme while others do not, creating an unpredictable flow that mirrors the chaos described within the poem.
Punctuation: The use of periods and commas contributes to the poem's rhythm, with periods signaling finality and despair at the end of thoughts. The absence of punctuation in certain lines allows for a more fluid interpretation.
Who: The poem could be interpreted as a collective voice of humanity grappling with its failures and the consequences of its actions.
What: It reflects on the state of the world following destruction and the struggles of individuals to come to terms with the new reality.
Where: The setting can be imagined as a dystopian landscape, representative of any place affected by war, disaster, or environmental collapse.
When: The poem speaks to a timeless theme of human suffering and resilience, but it could be particularly relevant in contemporary discussions about climate change, conflict, and societal breakdown.
Why: The poem serves as a reflection on the fragility of human existence and the impact of our choices, urging readers to consider the consequences of their actions on the world around them. It highlights the emotional turmoil faced by individuals in the wake of collective failure.
if silence had a smell, for it may be. a flower, the air, or possibly me. and though I wish it couldn't possibly be, I fear the scent of silence is purely me.
and though I speak all day, every day. everything i say is quiet, or weak. I'm not quite sure what to say.
my mother would say "darling you're perfect" and I would believe. but now I'm starting to wonder if I'm worth it. or if I should simply leave.
Theme
Central Idea and Subject Matter:
The central idea of the poem revolves around the exploration of personal identity and self-worth through the metaphor of silence. The speaker grapples with feelings of inadequacy and the notion that their silence may define them, leading to existential questioning. The subject matter encompasses themes of introspection, familial expectations, and the contrast between external perception and internal reality.
Word Choice and Literary Devices:
The language used in the poem is introspective and contemplative, using simple yet evocative phrases. The phrase "if silence had a smell" serves as a metaphor that encapsulates the essence of the poem, suggesting that silence has a tangible quality that can evoke emotions. The repetition of "silence" emphasizes its significance in the speaker's life. Additionally, the use of imagery (e.g., "a flower, the air") creates a sensory experience, while the contrast between the mother's reassurance and the speaker's internal doubts highlights the tension between external validation and self-perception. The use of enjambment (the continuation of a sentence without a pause beyond the end of a line), particularly in phrases like "and though I speak / all day, every day," adds a flow to the reading that mirrors the continuous nature of the speaker's thoughts.
Syllabic Patterns and Stresses:
The poem has a free verse structure, with no strict syllabic pattern or metrical rhythm. However, there is a natural cadence created through varying line lengths and the placement of pauses, often at the end of lines. This creates a reflective quality, allowing the reader to linger on the speaker's thoughts. The use of enjambment helps maintain a fluid rhythm, while caesuras (pauses within lines) emphasize moments of reflection and uncertainty.
Framework of the Poem:
The poem is structured into a series of stanzas, with varying line lengths that contribute to its free verse style. The lack of a consistent rhyme scheme gives the poem a conversational tone, while occasional rhymes (e.g., "be/me" and "weak/leave") provide moments of musicality. Punctuation is used to create pauses and emphasize certain phrases, such as the use of commas to slow the reader down and allow for contemplation. The line breaks often occur at points of emotional weight or thematic significance, guiding the reader's interpretation.
Who, What, Where, When, and Why:
The poem appears to be a personal reflection from a speaker who is navigating their sense of self amidst feelings of inadequacy and the burden of silence. While the specific identity of the speaker is not mentioned, they seem to be addressing their internal struggles, possibly in a private or intimate setting. The "who" could represent anyone grappling with self-worth and the impact of silence on their lives. The "what" involves the exploration of these themes through metaphor and imagery. The "where" is more abstract, as it reflects an internal landscape rather than a physical location. The "when" is timeless, as issues of identity and self-worth are universally relevant. Finally, the "why" may stem from a desire to articulate the complexities of personal experience and to find solace in shared vulnerability, connecting with others who may feel similarly isolated.
let me know how i did. i think this is my best work so far!
a few months ago I wished for love but then I let go. and just wished for a dove.
she was real kind. and she was sweet. she was kind? sweet?
what do those words mean? there she lays, foreseen. as I wish I could be. but she, is not me. how lucky she may be.
there I sit, again waiting for love. I haven't found it, why? I search, but find hate. why?
why must I always find the opposite? do they benefit? from shielding the world from me? I can love, I know I can. plan, I plan a way to find love.
but I fail, not yet, not yet do I succeed. but I will, just not yet. yet.
Theme
Central Idea: The poem explores the speaker's longing for love and the emotional turmoil that comes with it. The speaker reflects on past desires, the pain of unfulfilled wishes, and an ongoing struggle to connect with love.
Subject Matter: The poem conveys feelings of loneliness and confusion in the search for love, contrasting the idealized notion of love with the harsh reality of rejection, hate, and self-doubt. The imagery of a dove symbolizes peace and hope, while the speaker's introspection reveals a profound sense of inadequacy and desire.
Word Choice: The language is simple yet evocative, using everyday vocabulary to convey deep emotional experiences. Words like "kind," "sweet," and "lucky" are juxtaposed with "hate," emphasizing the contrast between the speaker's desires and reality.
Literary Devices:
Repetition: The use of "yet" at the end of the poem emphasizes the ongoing struggle and the hope for future success.
Rhetorical Questions: Questions such as "what do those words mean?" and "why must I always find the opposite?" illustrate the speaker's internal confusion and frustration.
Imagery: The dove symbolizes peace and love, while phrases like "shielding the world from me" evoke feelings of isolation.
Contrast: The juxtaposition of love and hate highlights the speaker's emotional conflict.
Syllabic Patterns and Stresses: The poem does not adhere to a strict syllabic pattern, but it maintains a conversational rhythm. The use of enjambment (where a sentence or phrase runs over from one line to the next) contributes to the flow and reflects the speaker's ongoing thoughts.
Stresses: There is a mix of stressed and unstressed syllables that gives the poem a natural, spoken quality. The varying line lengths create a sense of urgency in the speaker's voice.
Framework:
Stanzas: The poem is composed of several stanzas, each containing varying line lengths.
Line Breaks: The line breaks contribute to the poem's pacing and emotional weight, allowing readers to pause and reflect on key phrases.
Rhyme Patterns: The poem has an irregular rhyme scheme, with some lines rhyming and others not, which enhances the feeling of unpredictability in the speaker's emotional journey.
Punctuation and Pauses: The use of punctuation creates pauses that emphasize the speaker's contemplative nature and the weight of their thoughts.
Who: The speaker appears to be an introspective individual grappling with feelings of loneliness and a desire for love.
What: The poem captures the speaker's emotional state and their quest for love while reflecting on their experiences of rejection and self-doubt.
Where: The setting is abstract, as it focuses more on the speaker's internal world rather than a specific physical location.
When: The poem seems to be set in the present, with reflections on past experiences and aspirations for the future.
Why: The poem serves as an exploration of the complexities of love and the emotional struggles that accompany the search for connection, ultimately expressing hope for the future despite current challenges.
It began with a single misplaced book, its spine bent awkwardly between volumes that had nothing to do with its subject matter. The librarian, Clara Winthrop, couldn’t ignore it; the book didn’t belong in the History section, nor anywhere on the fourth floor. She plucked it free—a tattered, unremarkable thing—and opened to the first page. Scrawled in the margins were notes, frantic and looping, that seemed to shift under her gaze. "Do not file this where it belongs," one read. Another, near a coffee stain, said, "It starts in the silence of closing time." Her hands trembled. She wasn’t sure why she flipped to the last page, but when she did, she found her own name written there, followed by the exact time on the clock behind her.
Clara opens the book, reading the starting line.
"you wanna be one of them? yeah."
Clara flipped to the next page, heart thumping louder than she cared to admit. "I think I've seen this film before," it read in tidy serif print. She blinked, her pulse stuttering. That line wasn’t a lyric—was it? She couldn't place it, but it stirred the same eerie familiarity as the first. Suddenly, her own monotony felt suffocating, like she was trapped in a loop of dusty book spines and her endless playlists, her life dissolving into snippets of songs she’d once loved.
She turned the page again. "Now I'm in exile, seeing you out."
Her breath hitched. This time she knew. Taylor Swift. The words leapt off the paper, bleeding into her mind like a long-forgotten thought, tangled with the melancholy melody she could now hear as though it were playing through the library’s intercom. She dropped the book, her chair scraping the floor as she stumbled back. The walls around her seemed to warp, shifting into shadowy voids stitched together by lyrics and lines, half-remembered and all too familiar.
Clara backed away from the book as if it had snapped at her fingers, her breath shallow and uneven. The library, normally her sanctuary, suddenly felt alien. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed louder, like a swarm of insects burrowing into her ears. Every creak of the old wooden shelves echoed unnaturally, mocking her with the sound of a world just slightly out of tune.
She tried to shake the feeling, forcing herself to focus. "You're overthinking," she whispered, a mantra she’d repeated countless times when her imagination threatened to spiral. But as her gaze flicked back to the book lying open on the desk, she realized the page had turned on its own.
“Is it me? Am I the problem?”
The words stared back at her, innocuous yet intimate, as though the book had plucked the question straight from her own thoughts. Clara clutched the edge of the desk to steady herself. That line wasn’t from a song, was it? She couldn’t tell anymore. Everything was blending together—her music, the novels she devoured, the dialogue she replayed in her head during sleepless nights.
She snatched the book, meaning to slam it shut, but her hands betrayed her. Instead, her fingers flipped through the pages with feverish urgency. Line after line leapt out at her:
"I'm just a notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song."
"Help, I have done it again."
"Where do you go when you're lonely?"
"If you could see me now, you’d hate what I’ve become."
The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions, echoes of her own quiet despair. They followed her as she staggered to the nearest bookshelf, hoping for an anchor in something solid, something real. But the books surrounding her seemed to tremble, their spines stretching and warping as if they, too, had begun to sing.
The library grew colder, the air charged with a static hum. Clara’s vision blurred, and for a moment, she swore she saw figures flickering between the shelves, shadowy and indistinct. One figure paused, staring directly at her, its lips moving silently. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew they were for her.
Fleeing felt futile, but Clara bolted anyway, her shoes pounding against the carpet as the walls seemed to close in around her. The music followed, every lyric she'd ever loved or lost herself in echoing in her ears, relentless and accusatory.
“You wanna be one of them? Yeah?”
The first line she’d read returned, mocking her, taunting her. She clamped her hands over her ears, trying to drown it out, but the words weren’t coming from the library anymore. They were inside her head, growing louder with each step she took.
Clara stumbled into the break room and slammed the door shut, her chest heaving. The silence was deafening, but it didn’t last. The radio on the counter clicked on by itself, its dial spinning as static gave way to the familiar, haunting chords of Mr. Rager.
Clara huddled in the corner of the break room, knees drawn to her chest, as the radio hissed and crackled. The familiar chords faded, replaced by silence so oppressive it made her ears ring. She wanted to scream, to tear herself free from whatever was happening, but the air seemed to press against her throat, heavy and unmoving.
Then, softly, the next song began. Her stomach dropped.
"All this time..."
The voice was slow and deliberate, its tone tinged with something far colder than nostalgia. It wasn’t just a song anymore; it felt personal, directed, a lullaby meant to unthread her sanity.
"I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind)."
The walls around her shimmered like heat waves, the paint peeling away to reveal layers of text—pages and pages of lyrics and phrases, crawling like veins across the room. Her name appeared, over and over again, buried within the lines as though the library itself had cataloged her soul.
"I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around)."
A shadow passed in front of her, indistinct and shifting, but its presence was suffocating. Clara’s breath hitched as it knelt before her, its face obscured, its lips moving in perfect sync with the words pouring from the radio.
"’Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)."
The shadow stopped singing, its head tilting as if waiting for her to respond. The room dimmed further, the text on the walls now pulsating faintly, like a heartbeat. Clara wanted to speak, to plead, to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, the figure reached out, its hand hovering just inches from her face, and whispered the final line in a voice that sounded like hers and not hers all at once:
"I gave so many signs."
And then everything went black.
A few days later, the library stood eerily quiet beneath a gray sky, the kind of overcast that promised rain but withheld it. By evening, flames erupted from the building, licking at the walls and pouring thick black smoke into the night. The fire consumed everything—shelves, books, desks—all reduced to ash before the fire department could arrive.
Among the ruins, they found Clara Winthrop. She was curled in the same corner of the break room, her body untouched by the fire’s rage yet lifeless, as though she had simply chosen to lie down and fade away. No accelerants were found, no sign of how the fire had started. The security cameras showed nothing but empty halls before the flames appeared.
The official report would label it an accident—an electrical fault, they’d say. But the whispers spread. Staff recalled how Clara had seemed distant in her final days, how her eyes darted to empty spaces as though someone—or something—was there.
And then there were the survivors who swore they could still hear faint whispers in the air when they passed the charred ruins, the ghost of a melody entwined with crackling static:
"All this time, I never learned to read your mind... I gave so many signs."
No one dared to rebuild on the site. It became a scar in the town, a hushed reminder of Clara Winthrop and the haunting silence she left behind.
The Hunger Games: The Game of Shadows
The sun had barely crested over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the arena. The trees loomed tall, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands, their leaves rustling in a wind that whispered warnings. The sound of distant birds was drowned out by the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith, the Capitol's voice of the Games.
"Welcome, tributes," he intoned, his voice smooth and controlled. "The Games are about to begin, but first, a new challenge. This time, survival depends not on your strength or skill with weapons, but on your ability to vanish, to blend into the shadows. You have ninety seconds to hide. If you are found, you perish. Good luck."
A sickening silence fell over the arena. The tributes stood frozen, some wide-eyed, others with clenched fists, knowing the odds were not in their favor. This was no ordinary day in the Games. This was the Capitol’s twisted version of a hunt, and the prey were them.
In the distance, the blaring noise of the countdown began. It echoed through the arena, a constant reminder of the inevitability of what was to come.
Ninety seconds.
The tributes scattered, their feet crunching against the dry leaves as they darted for cover. The forest was dense, the ground uneven, but they didn’t have time to worry about anything but survival. The sound of hurried breathing filled the air as some tributes sought shelter in hollowed trees, others crawled under thick shrubs, and a few dashed toward rocks or the barely visible cliffside.
Finnick Odair, the victor from District 4, moved with the grace of someone who had mastered the art of stealth in the arena. He dove behind a cluster of bushes, slipping into a crouch and trying to steady his breathing. His mind raced. Ninety seconds didn’t seem long enough, yet it felt like a lifetime. Would they hear his heartbeat thundering against his ribs? He forced himself to remain perfectly still.
Sixty seconds.
A few tributes had already begun to panic. They were running, desperate, looking for any place to hide. One girl, a tribute from District 7, dove behind a rock—only to be caught by the hovering hovercraft that had already begun scanning for movement. A single spotlight illuminated her, and the unmistakable sound of an electric shot rang out.
"One down," Claudius Templesmith's voice echoed, a cruel laugh following the announcement.
The clock continued to tick. The tributes, too afraid to speak, held their breath. Some glanced over at their competitors, searching for any signs of movement. Their senses heightened, every small noise seemed to reverberate through the trees, and the fear of being hunted grew with every passing second.
Thirty seconds.
Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire, moved quickly, slipping behind a thick oak. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she knew she had to remain calm. The Games had taught her many things, but most of all, she had learned that the Capitol’s true power wasn’t in the weapons they gave the tributes, but in their ability to control everything—including the fear.
She didn’t think about Peeta, or Gale, or anything other than the fact that she had to survive. The Capitol was watching. She had to play their game, but on her terms.
Ten seconds.
Her eyes darted from side to side. She could hear a tribute, maybe from District 10, breathing heavily in the bushes nearby. Then the voice of Claudius Templesmith once more.
"Time’s up."
The silence that followed was deafening. Then the sound of the hovercrafts was unmistakable as they zoomed across the sky. The Capitol's games were only just beginning.
snows voice rings out in an eerily calm way "May the odds be ever in your favor"
December 24th, 1963
The beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, each pulse louder than the last, like a drumbeat that couldn’t be ignored. I stood by the bed, syringe in hand, my breath shallow, my heart racing. The patient’s condition had deteriorated so quickly—one moment they were stable, the next, it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers. The seconds were slipping by too fast. Every decision felt heavier than the last, and my hands, though steady, betrayed the chaos in my mind. Was I doing the right thing? Was this the right dose? The weight of my responsibility pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. A single misstep, just one, and everything could change in an instant.
I glanced down at the syringe, then at the monitor again. It was now or never.
I’ve done this before. I’ve been trained for this. I know the steps. Two doses. I’ve handled much worse, much scarier situations than this. But as I pushed the plunger, three words stormed through my mind, one after another.
Syringe.
Heartbeat.
Lost.
Syringe.
Heartbeat.
Lost.
They came crashing in, one after another, a wave of fear and doubt. Like a tsunami after an earthquake, they followed me. Every thought seemed to spiral into those three words, making the world around me spin out of control. The sound of the monitor’s beeping seemed louder now, sharper. My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse raced. Was it too late? Had I missed my chance? Was this the moment I’d feared?
Time seemed to stretch on, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running out of it.
And then, like a miracle, the seconds started to fade back into time. The steady beep of the monitor, once erratic and tense, began to steady. The rhythm slowed, softened. Each pulse, a small victory. Each breath, a silent prayer answered. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the weight in my chest began to lift.
The patient’s color returned, their breaths deepened, became a little more certain. I let out a long exhale, my legs feeling weak as I leaned against the wall. It wasn’t over, not yet, but for now, I had won. The storm had passed.
Looking down at them, I couldn’t help but smile, a soft tug at my lips. Those words, haunting as they were, didn’t become a prophecy today. They stayed in my mind, a reminder of how fragile life is, but in this moment, I knew. I knew that I had done everything I could. My training. My heart. It made a difference.
For now, that’s enough.
Maria and Emma walk into the park, the wind eerily quiet, despite the park being filled with voices of children, the sounds of parents getting onto said children, the barking of dogs, and the chirping of birds, to them, none of it is there, it's like they can't hear anything. why is that? they continue walking until they find a secluded area in the park, its empty, perfect. Maria sits down, wanting to have the conversation Emma's been avoiding once and for all, Though Emma looks hesitant, she sits down, avoiding eye contact. "why haven't you been speaking to me?" Maria asks. Emma doesn't respond, staring off into space at a nearby note on a tree. "Emma, can you not hear me, or are you just ignoring me" Maria scoffs, annoyed that Emma agreed to have the conversation, yet is avoiding it, once again, that is, until Maria herself, notices the note, and stands up to grab it. "find forgiveness, and you may leave" "what?" Maria mutters. "who wrote this" Her mind shifts to the argument the two girls previously had a few weeks ago, and she knows what this is about, she knows what she has to do. she turns to Emma, forcing her to listen to what she has to say. "Listen Emma, I'm sorry, I was having a bad day, you were just trying to help me, and I lashed out at you" Maria says, hoping, praying, that the sensitive Emma would take her apology, finally, Emma speaks. "Maria, I'm not sure if forgiveness Is something I can provide, but I'm not going to ignore you anymore either" Maria is somber, Emma had always forgave her easily, but now that a small argument shifted that, she wonders "forgiveness, is it real" of course, she's overthinking, but leave it to her to find the most crazy explanation for things. The two girls go to the gate of the park, trying to open it. it stay's locked. they look at each other, sharing an understanding look. They sigh, sitting back down and talk, sharing frustrations, feelings and laughs, determined to leave the park and return to the friendship they once shared.