You had the book opened before you. The light beside the bed flickered. Lifting your eyes, you gave the bulb a disgruntled look. Why they decided to wire electricity through this treehouse was beyond you. You fiddled with the bulb, but it didn't become any brighter.

Groaning, you slapped the book down and rested back in the bed in the middle of the cramped hotel room. You heard music from beyond the sliding glass door: perhaps one of the restaurants that had evolved since Ponyville became a tourist destination. Glancing out, you saw light dimming. Evening had fallen again, and you had accomplished nothing. Most ponies took vacations in bizarre, far-off, exotic locales. This evidently was not the case with you.

Groaning, overwhelmed with the scents of the lonesome day, you got up from bed and trudged into the bathroom. You took a shower, and it was a long, steamy, lethargic experience. Most of it was spent with you squatting on your haunches, leaning against the tile and sighing.

It occurred to you that you might be using too much of the hotel's generous facilities. You cut the warm shower short and spent an extraordinary amount of time drying and then brushing your mane. You lingered before the mirror, staring at your features. The years were decidedly marked on your face and neck. There were the signs of bruises, of scars, and over a dozen scrapes. You weren't an ugly mare by any stretch, but you found yourself at a loss to call the reflection anything remotely beautiful.

You remembered the path you walked that day. You remembered stumbling upon the schoolyard. You remembered how bright the ruby color was, like cherries in a basket, and just as sweet.

And then you saw the scars again. Shutting your eyes, you turned from the mirror. You limped towards bed, shutting off every light along the way. You were clean from the shower, as spotless as the day you were born, but somehow you couldn't help but feel extraordinarily filthy.

You collapsed on the bed. The book was in the way. There was no more time for reading. You didn't want to invite anything that might make you think, not when all you needed was to feel.

And you did feel. And you hated yourself for doing it, because that's when the tears started. There was a sniffling sound, like there was a softer, gentler pony weeping in the room beside you. But you knew better than to assume that you were anything but alone.

“I wish...”

You reached up, grabbed a hoof-full of pillows, and hugged it to your chest.

“I wish that I could love you...”

You clenched your eyes shut and surrendered to the darkness. The music was a continent away now. Ponyville had melted with your tears. You only wished that your voice could go with it.

“I-I just wish that I could love you...”

You cried yourself asleep.