She was light and hope, from a distance; all brilliance and beauty, charisma and kindness, a soul without measure and a kindred to all. She was the passion of a hundred soccer games, the home run in the final inning, the gold medal of every Olympics. She was triumph, and glory.
She was easy to love.
But her heart was empty, and her mind was bitter; ever she searched for one who would fly close enough to her flame, and risk burning to ash in her eyes. Ever she longed for one who would love her when she failed, when she could not be kind, when she hurt.
For love given to a mask, and not to the true soul within, is not love at all.