She

She sat alone.

She always seemed to be alone.

She lingered in the dusty barn as the light streamed through the old wooden slats.

And she loved the barn.

And she loved being alone.

She sat on one of the beams that stretched across the structure, let one of her legs dangle off the side, and straightened her other leg along the dark brown lath. She leaned up against another beam that extended from floor to ceiling supporting the timeworn building.

And she loved the barn.

She loved the smell of the hay and how she felt like she was in her own secret place. She loved the quiet.

And she loved to read there.

As she sat on the beam she flipped through the pages of her book for hours, lost in a world that was not her own.

And why not?

Because her own world was one that she could live without. Or at least she imagined living without. Without the fear and anger and rejection.

If she chose to be alone, to read her books, and to be lost in her own thoughts, she was safe.

And it was in this solitude that she found her refuge and she made a world for herself.

And so she sat alone.

And in that moment, she was peaceful and she was happy.