Sunflower.

Length: Short

Genre: Fluff/Romance

Now Playing: Post Malone, Swae Lee - Sunflower

Wendy's one goal is to make Joy smile.

Is it love? Who knows.

Why do people do that, Wendy wonders. Why do people put labels on things? Try to put things in little boxes, here and there, labels on everything, making sure everything’s neat and tidy, everything has its preordained purpose, its own arrangement. This has to be love, this has to be hate. That has to admiration, loyalty, awe, respect, whatever else. Why does it matter what it is? Putting labels on things only serves to dampen the feeling. To numb the effect. Just go with it, she thinks. Just let it take you. That’s what being alive is – that’s living, really. To be lost to the wind, not really knowing where you’re going or what you’re doing or where you’ll end up and not really caring, because you’re along for the ride. You’re just enjoying the journey.

Maybe it is. She sits at the back of the practice room watching Joy and watching her do nothing. Maybe that’s what people in love do. She’s never been in love before. Or perhaps she has, but admittedly that’s the one big downside to refusing to label things or confront them face-on or try to work on some baser logical level to understand those feelings: It prevents confirmation. Joy watches her with a smile. It’s a homely smile, a caring one. One Wendy’s seen many times before, in the dorm and when they’re on stage or behind the scenes waiting to go on or rehearsing or on a radio show somewhere. It’s one she’s become accustomed to, the quirks of it, the little idiosyncrasies held in every twitch of every muscle, the way the corner of her lip raises first at the right side and then all together, and then teeth. A whole smile.

Is that creepy? Who knows. She asks a lot of questions. It’s always been in her nature to be inquisitive of things. That’s just Wendy. Always getting stuck in, always throwing herself out there, never afraid to make a fool of herself or clown around or look like a bit of an idiot, and especially not if it makes someone else laugh, or makes them happy for a second or two, because that’s the best thing, isn’t it? The joy of others. That momentary bliss that comes absent any other worry or thought. And the best thing about it is that it isn’t unique – it isn’t held by any one sort of person. Everyone has the right to that same slim happiness, no matter what. Everyone is equal.

That’s what she is to Joy, always. She’s that momentary glimmer of pure sunlight on a winter’s day. She’s when the clouds clear and the rain stops and everything holds a calm and understated peace, a sort of universal tranquillity that is so fleeting, ephemeral. Before we settle back in the real world.

Maybe she’s too much. Maybe she needs to calm down. Sometimes she thinks that’s the case. That she needs to perhaps take a back seat and just let things be. And she’s content to do that, but at the same time Joy is right there, and sometimes it’s clear to see how much it gets to her. Not always, but sometimes. The long schedules, the drama filming, everything that comes in between. The whole weight of it on her shoulders. And Wendy’s tired, too. They all are. It’s the nature of people to be tired now. It’s not the fatigue that pulls down everything in between, it’s that in between – those few hours of freedom, escape – that buoy up the endless work.

And if she isn’t there for Joy, who is? The others are, of course, and her friends and managers and everyone else. But they’ve got something special, something different. Something neither of them can explain and in all honesty Wendy doesn’t want to, because that would be putting labels on things, wouldn’t it? And no labels. Never any labels. That’s her one rule. So she sits with Joy and she’s with Joy, she’s always with Joy, and they laugh and she tells a couple jokes and Joy remarks on how funny she is, how bright she is, a spark in the endless dim, a light through the dark of the day. That’s Wendy to a tee, and it suits her, because there’s nothing better than seeing Joy smile. Nothing at all.

So, is it love? Probably. Sometimes she lays down at night and thinks of Joy. Thinks of what they could have together. Something more, something tangible. Something both of them could feel, reach out and touch. But then she thinks of what it’d mean, and whether Joy really wants that, and sure, Wendy would be happier, but what about the others? What about Joy. And what then? So it’s better this way, she thinks. Standing at the back of the room, of every room, watching from a distance, occasionally coming forward and saying something that brightens Joy’s day and disappearing again. Always there for her. Always.

She never cries, not once. There’s nothing to cry over. Not for Wendy, at least. Because each person holds some unspoken set of principles by which they measure each debt and asset in their life and Wendy’s is the happiness of others, the smiles on the faces of those she holds dearest and closest. Not her own. Her own content is the petals on the flowerheads – beautiful in bloom, dependent on others to flourish. If nobody else has a smile, how can she? She’s not that type of person. She never has been.

Joy’s saying something to her. She’s calling over. She’s finished practice for their new song and she’s taking a break and now it’s Wendy’s chance to say something, to confess maybe, or to drop a small hint of such, or to admit fully and entirely what she thinks and feels and gauge whether Joy feels the same way or not, to just get it out there, to be done with it. No more labels. No more worrying about them. But instead she just says something funny. By sundown she won’t even remember what it is but it doesn’t matter, never has. Because it gets Joy smiling ear to ear, and then she’s laughing, and that’s what Wendy remembers. What she treasures at night. Each smile. Every last one.

She’s not the one that Joy wants, but she’s the one she needs. The one that Joy looks to before anyone else. She’s not in love with Wendy, not like that. But it’s something greater, something somehow even more important, a sort of necessary bond that can never be broken. She’s the rock, is Wendy. She’s the support there at all times, but it’s even more than that. She’s the smile on Joy’s face, the laughter in her life. She’s everything Joy needs even when Joy doesn’t realise it. She’s the little things, the tender meagreness often mistaken for triviality, is Wendy. She’s the sunflower in the garden, gold and white and pinwheeled and in bloom forever, just waiting for Joy to pluck her, praying hopelessly for it, knowing she never will, never could.

But, in some way, she thinks that’s better. You can take the sunflower from the garden if you like, but what if it wilts? Then it’s gone, and there’s no getting it back. But when it’s there in the garden – just there, just out of reach, bright and bold in the eye of the sun – well, it’s there forever then, isn't it?