As if they saw all of life slightly differently, thin as can be, entirely differently. String theory, alternate plains, both of us still living but not in any of these worlds the same.
Some may see the interconnectness, as if while dying aware of a return journey, one universal truth underlying, a thin veil, what we may have never said in person, what we know to have felt, but that we were all one and the same.
That would be my claim. But the fabric of her world could be made entirely differently. The same people are in it but the meaning not the same. One stitch over, thread leads elsewhere. Self secluded and aware. Hiding there. Who are we to know how she sees it. Perhaps she's always been all alone. Born to a world disconnected, to each their own, each to their very own.
It would explain why nothing hurts that deep, or that deep, or why there's nothing left to say, or why she's done it that way. Why she's been so deft at leaving, while never being seen, or never having to be seen as having been left behind.
What do we know of what it feels like to her, how hard she throws away the suffer. The parts that draw last blood. And what of words, who said they mean anything to her. How does touch work. How far singed are her nerves.
It may not be the same to her.
She may not want the world we live in. She may have a place all her own. And how much does that mean she suffers alone. And how much does that mean she lives for herself alone.
How strong or how weak. Because to be is just to be.