Your Lost Eyelash
123 Lost Street
A Lost City, A Lost State
A Lost Month, A Lost Day, A Lost Year

Girl Who Lost Me
My Past Home
A Beautiful City, A Beautiful State
In your eyes, I saw two gardens. The flowers were bright, inviting, and nourished with youth. When given the opportunity, urgent beams of light would make homes of your irises, giving you such a prominent glow that my place atop your eyelid felt like more of an honor than a duty. Although you may not have known, I was your most industrious eyelash. My place as a single contributor may seem trivial when looked upon next to all of your other eyelashes who I called my neighbors, but I say without a doubt that I was the most impactful of them all. I was a shield against life’s cruelties and an open door to the bliss that builds with time. Every ceaseless second, your eyes used to become brighter, and if a frown ever dared to make an appearance, their light would perform as magnets to bring the corners of your mouth back up into a smile. But something had the audacity to cast a shadow. Over time, this force dulled your shine to the point that it was barely discernible. I write to you to help you understand. When you lost me, everything changed. Eight years ago, you lost your shield, but I did not and will never lose you.
         
It was third grade and you were eight years old. The gardens in your eyes were filled with life, and the much adored blue iris flowers were in full bloom. As always, I was perched atop your eyelid while you found a place to sit in the front row of an organized group of classroom desks. Your favorite teacher, a short woman with curly gray hair and a sweet smile, stood at the front of the room with what could easily be perceived as a simple question: What is one thing you like about yourself? At this, your mind went blank. What others saw as a straightforward task, you saw as a rather ambiguous one. Before you could come to an answer, the majority of your peers had already shared with ease and a sense of self-pride that to you, seemed foreign. When the question came back to you, your answer was a solemn one: nothing.  
         
With the end of the day came a crucial conversation between you and your teacher. I’m sure you remember this vividly. She sat you down at her desk, looked you in the eye, and asked the question I too was wondering.
         
“Is there really nothing you like about yourself?”
         
You sat still and stiff before answering timidly.
         
“There’s nothing at all.”
         
This was when the tears arrived, and when they did, my senses were overwhelmed by the sudden flood. Your eight-year-old self was a novice in sorrow, for never before had you experienced such a bitter realization. As you cried, my abilities weakened. I could no longer protect your eyes from what they were seeing.

“Don’t cry,” said your teacher. “I can name plenty of things I like about you. I like your humor, your enthusiasm, and your gorgeous eyes. There’s nothing to be sad about.”
         
With those words came the temporary cessation of your sorrow, and the light in your eyes returned, but with a weaker glow. As you wiped the remainder of the tears from your face, I began to relax along with you. However, this was a fleeting feeling. The next moment, I felt a sharp pain spread about my figure, and to my dismay, I found myself detached from your eyelid and situated on the palm of your trembling hand.
         
“Look,” said your teacher, pointing at me. “There’s an eyelash on your hand. If you blow it away on the first try after making a wish, it will come true.”
         
This made you smile in a way that would have filled me with joy if not for the circumstance. Resting on the palm of your hand, I dreaded that this would be the end. Day after day, I had witnessed my neighbors’ departures, but never could have imagined such a tragedy to be my fate. But what you must understand is that I was no ordinary eyelash; nor am I today. I perceive life with more depth than your own eyes ever will. And I knew that you needed me to stay.  
         
“I wish…” you began, an expression of concentration in your eyes. I looked up at you, you looked down at me, and then finally, you broke the silence. With great delight, you pointed to a bowl of candy. “I wish for one of those lollipops over there. A blue one, of course!"
         
You spoke with such joy that it seemed as though you could never lose me. Pausing to take a breath of air, you closed your eyes after catching a glimpse of me for one last time. Gardens still shut, I watched the evanescent glow as it wavered. With all the strength you could muster, you blew me up into the air in one swift effort. As I flew, I relished the new feeling of freedom that I never thought I would experience. Away from all of your other eyelashes, I felt a new sense of power and importance. After a few more moments of travels, you may have thought that gravity had gotten its way with me. But I did not fall. Instead, I flew higher until I could see you and your teacher from a bird’s eye view. I floated peacefully, watching you smile despite the slight linger of sadness. Oblivious to my position barely below the ceiling, your contentment prevailed.
         
“That eyelash didn’t stand a chance!” said your teacher. She handed you a blue lollipop. “You deserve this. Don’t ever forget how beautiful you are.”
         
In consequence to your eight-year-old attention span, your teacher’s words failed to make it to your consciousness. All you could pay attention to was the sweet treat you had wished for. When I looked down at you, I saw an innocent, gleeful young girl whose youth served as a makeshift shield. However, the widening crack was something I couldn’t ignore. Despite us being physically detached, the thought of truly leaving you filled me with despair. Lollipop in hand, you made your way out of your third-grade classroom and outside where the sky was a pleasant, subtle hue of blue. Flying hastily through the air, I had little time to think. With a care-free smile, you headed towards a bright yellow school bus. And I followed you.        
In your eyes, I saw two flowers. They were blue iris blooms that used to grow in abundance. Now they stood utterly alone. No garden surrounded them, giving the pair an eerie vibe of forlorn figures. Ever since you lost me in third grade, one by one, all but these two flowers had died.  
       
It was seventh grade and you were twelve years old. I floated peacefully in the air above you, but this time, you were not in school. Instead, you were sitting in front of the mirror in your room, staring at your reflection with sad eyes. In your blinded view, you bore the tribulation of a thousand flaws. What they were exactly, you could not name. This was because it was not you who had put this thought inside your head. That day at school, as I followed your every step, I watched in dismay as an old friend called you ugly. Ugly. No more, no less. This one word impacted you to such an extent that even if you hadn’t lost me, your sadness would have pursued. Such an equivocal term served as the worst insult you could have heard. At this moment, all I wished was to be able to protect you.
         
Looking into your mirror, a sudden flashback of third grade intruded your thoughts. Oh, what simple days. The day you lost me, the only thing you could think to wish for was a blue lollipop. Not money, nor fame, nor happiness. A lollipop. This was a decision you now regretted, for your twelve-year-old self saw it as childish and arbitrary. Staring at your reflection, you began to rebuke your youth for not wishing to be beautiful. You belittled yourself as a fool. Filled with the day’s memory, you asked yourself a question you had not truly considered since you were eight years old.
         
“What is one thing you like about yourself?” you asked your reflection. “Come on, you can do this.”
         
As you scrutinized your every feature, no ideas blossomed. And this time, there was no one who could possibly comfort you, except for the reflection to which you were so averse to. And of course, there was me. But to you, I was long gone.  
         
Within a few moments, your tears made their inevitable entrance. Your sorrow arrived even more rapidly than the day in third grade, making me think that surely another eyelash or two would have to go. And I was right. As you began to regain your composure, you wiped the tears away with your hands. I watched as one of my old neighbors fell to your palm, then floated to the ground without you noticing. Instinctively, you searched your hands for any lost eyelashes. But you found none. No wish was to be made. Not even a blue lollipop was given to you to ease the pain.             
         
Continuing to look into your reflection, you stared at the person whose opinion mattered most with eyes full of fear. The light of your irises dimmed further and further, so much so that the two flowers held in them began to shrivel. An overpowering form of darkness had engulfed you, and at this point, you had no flashlights. What scared you was the idea that your mind would be confined forever. You feared that you had fallen into some inescapable trap, and that your confidence would be stuck in an abyss between strength and lost persistence. Eventually, you stepped away from your mirror. And I followed you.        
In your eyes, I saw two seeds. They stood alone in a bleak, barren landscape deprived of soil, water or sunlight. The last two blue iris blooms were long gone, and your lights were dim, yet persistent.
         
It was eleventh grade and you were sixteen years old. I floated peacefully in the air above where you stood in front of your mirror. For the last year or two, this was where you would spend a large quantity of your free time. As you grew older, your confidence was a faltering force. When it would rise, any seemingly trivial impact could bring it crashing back down. This very much depended on the display in front of you. Surrounding your mirror was an organized collection of hundreds of dollars worth of makeup. Every morning you took part in the tedious practice of covering your face with a wide variety of products. Even a blind pair of eyes could see that this was not something you found enjoyment from. However, you saw it as a necessity. With every layer of makeup formed what you believed to be a shield from all the tears and fears you had experienced.
         
As I flew around in the air above you, I watched as you stared at the bountiful supply of makeup you would routinely apply for school. You reached for a skin primer, then did something that surprised me. Pausing your movements, you looked at your reflection with eyes full of determination. Then you spoke.
         
“What is one thing you like about yourself?” you questioned. “I know you can do it. I have no doubts.”
         
Acquiring a pensive mood, your eyes met your reflection. As more time passed, you grew frustrated. Out of all of your features, you still could not think of one that you liked.
         
“I hate my uneven skin tone,” you lamented. “I hate my chubby cheeks, I hate my misshapen eyebrows, and I hate my short eyelashes.”
         
Oh, your eyelashes. If only you hadn't lost me, you could have spared yourself some misery.
         
“Maybe there’s nothing,” you said with a wistful sigh. Your light was faint, but not absent. “No, I won’t accept that! There has to be something!”
       
It was only when you looked into your irises that you found it. Those that I have seen so much in for so long were what finally reached you.
         
 “I like the color of my eyes,” you said in awe. “Yes, that’s it!”
         
At this, I looked into your eyes once more. Behind the two seeds was a subtle hue of blue that reminded me of the blue iris blooms that once dwelled in your gardens. Once this discovery had been made, you reached for more.
         
“There has to be something else,” you said with fresh hope. “I like…”
         
But after several moments of anticipation, you thought of nothing. That is, until an idea blossomed.
         
“I’ll do my makeup before I decide what else I like,” you said to your reflection. “That will give me more time to think.”
         
For the next half hour, you applied your makeup with meticulous attention to detail. Starting with primer, you put on foundation, concealer, face contour, and more. Then it came to the eyes. When you reached for a tube of mascara, I winced at the thought of being coated in such a heavy substance. Looking at your eyelids, I could almost feel the horror of my former neighbors. However, this was to your oblivion. You coated your eyelashes with a double layer of the tar-like product, then applied liquid eyeliner to your eyelids in the form of two wings. Finally, your makeup was complete. And finally, you saw yourself as some form of beautiful.
       
“Now I know,” you said, staring at your made-up face. “I like my even skin tone, I like my rosy cheeks, I like my flawless eyebrows, and I like my bold, beautiful eyelashes.”
         
Your eyes brightened with a fabricated glow, and from above you, I felt a sense of sadness that had never been so strong.
         
“I have not a single flaw,” you said in a sing-song voice. “Except…”
         
Looking closer at your eyelids, you noticed that one of the wings did not match the other. Without a hint of hesitancy, you reached for your liquid eyeliner and held it but an inch away from your left eyelid. Taking you by surprise, the tip of the eyeliner made direct contact with your iris. This mistake caused you sudden confusion as your eye filled up with the liquid makeup, turning your iris into a shade of pure black. Blinking rapidly, the black ink came rolling down your rosy cheek. Smearing mascara from your bold, beautiful eyelashes, you attempted to rub the eyeliner away. After your eye had stopped watering, you looked back at your reflection and stamped your foot in vexation. Your makeup was ruined, as was your confidence, causing you to once again view yourself as nothing more than ugly. Then you looked down at the palm of your hand. On it was a mess of black ink and a single eyelash. 
       
“At least I have a wish to make,” you said quietly to yourself. Then you spoke without a second thought. “I wish to be beautiful.”
         
You tried to blow the eyelash away, however, it was so heavily coated in mascara that it would not budge. A second attempt, and the eyelash remained stuck. You tried once more, but to no avail. The eyelash was weighed down in so much makeup that no force- not even all the confidence in the world- could move it. At your most inopportune moment, the ruined eyelash became engraved in you forever. Eventually, you moved away from the makeup and trudged towards a garden a thousand miles away. And I followed you.          
In your eyes, I see two weeds. They stretch about the entirety of your irises, and no hue of blue is to be seen underneath. I look deep into your eyes as I write you this letter, for it is all I can do to protect you. You have lost me, but I’m still here.
         
When you receive this, my hope is that you will understand. I want you to understand why your garden is barren. I want you to understand how you fell into this trap. And most of all, I want you to understand that even though we are no longer one, the list of things I like about you continues to blossom.
       
I hope that you can write back to me soon. Although I follow you every day, we have not yet spoken. With time, I assure you that your blue iris blooms will grow back. Your garden will return to you, and so will the light of your eyes. Good luck, my friend.