nobody thought it was strange that the sun had stopped rising in the east. nobody questioned the fact that technically the world was spinning backwards, that days were running in reverse. nobody noticed that they woke up and ate breakfast when the sun was backing away from the earth, rather than merrily approaching it. everybody was too busy looking at screens, and at papers, and at each other to notice one tiny little detail, like that.
the sun thought it was funny, at first - watching the world carry on without a doubt in their minds. watching them flutter through their days, watching their feet march them through harmonious routines, watching them kiss each other when they arrived home at the end of a long day (still unaware they were doing it backwards) and telling dull stories everybody pretended were mildly amusing. he thought it was all very amusing, until one day - it wasn’t.
how insignificant did somebody have to be, before nobody saw him? before nobody noticed that he had tricked them all, before he became such an oblivious mess that nobody dared to look at him. the sun was sad.
the people, however - didn’t notice this either. they never noticed the light starting to dim, the way that the day shrunk in size, like it had been put through the wrong cycle in the washing machine. they carried on their days, only bothering to rush a little more, to get the milk before the shops closed when the sun finally made his descent.
“oh they are silly little creatures,” the moon mumbled, one day as she drifted past her lifelong friend, “they never notice anything - especially things that don’t involve them.”
and the sun was hesitant to agree, because he saw them compliment hair, and clothes, and choice in books - he saw them hold hands, and tongues and try their best to please others. he knew they couldn’t all be too bad, when he saw them share their food, knowing the hunger of their own. they couldn’t be so bad, so by the logical deductions of life, the only thing failing in this relationship - was the sun himself.
he shone brighter then, trying to catch attention - he flew into an over enthused life of torture, burning himself from the outside, in - trying with all his might to please the people who never took the time to look up, to look him in the eyes and whisper their appreciation. he was nothing, he realised soon, he was nothing to them - other than a source of light in which for them to admire themselves.
he lived lonely then, without a positive thought to keep him company. he pushed away the moon and the stars and he closed his eyes when he had to give off light (which he did, because he was kind-hearted and loving, despite his dishonest receivers) he turned off his brain, and stared dully into the darkness that seemed to be his existence.
there was a boy, who had lived for a whole twelve years, and in those twelve years he noticed a number of things. he noticed that it doesn’t matter if you watch the pot, or if you don’t - it will take the exact same amount of time, only one way lets you use your time more productively, and so he changed the saying to “a watched pot is merely a waste of time.” and he noticed that his father had brought the wrong paint for the second half of their newly renovated house, when the start was off-cream, and the end seemed to be pale custard - but he also knew how hard his father had tried, and so he never mentioned it. he knew that people liked to be told nice things, and that they also liked to sit down at the end of the day, and take their shoes off - in fact, he knew a lot of things. and he knew that the sun was sad.
“it’s winter,” his father had scoffed. “this is what happens in winter,” and maybe it was, the boy thought - maybe it was, but this time it wasn’t. nobody asked him how he knew this, nobody even believed him, but that was okay. this boy was special, and he knew what he knew, and nobody had to tell him otherwise.
he wrote a letter, first - a letter listing his appreciation, and his undefined love for the sun, for the warmth he gives off, for the light, for the way that he felt both of them touch his heart when he walked to school in the morning - knowing that this was a very pure form of fondness, being caressed right through his ghostly flesh. he told him that he was sorry that he was sad, and that he was sure it wasn’t worth it. it’s never worth being sad, when instead you can be happy. happiness is warm too, so maybe if the sun wasn’t feeling happy, that’s why he felt so cold, and in turn that coldness made him unhappy. the boy knew about this cycle and he warned his friend, that some day - some day very far in the future, this could all have been avoided, because he knows it is hard, but he knows it is possible. finally he told the sun that he loved him, and he hoped he would be okay, and he hoped that his heart would mend itself because he was fond of the sun that he once was, but he was great the way he is now, too - but just, it’s not always best to change when you’ve become very negative.
the sun cried for a few days, when he received a letter tied to a balloon - he cried because his hot fingers burst the balloon, and the balloon was very pretty, and he cried because he felt his heart thaw. the people on the earth didn’t notice his tears, despite the very wet day they had - and they carried on like normal, this time with umbrellas. the sun wrote back, with much haste. he was not fixed, not by any long shot - but he felt thawed and refreshed and scrubbed raw, but he had a friend now. a single friend in an infinite universe, and that made him important.
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