So I know the last chapter of this was literally just me gushing over Over the Garden Wall, but dragonwritesthings inspired and gave me permission to write the character study things I've had floating around in the back of my mind. I don't think this turned out nearly as pretty as hers, and I self-projected like a lot, but I hope you enjoy.

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I think that, through no fault of your own, you've walled up your heart and keep pushing people away on purpose.

It's not that you scorn the idea of friendship or letting yourself have a crush now and then. It's just that, when you do let people close to you, they always seem to end up leaving eventually. So it's easier if you just never let anyone inside those walls to begin with.

A heart is a fragile thing. So you keep it to yourself, and sometimes let it bleed out into the pages of your latest poem or the notes of a song, though you'd never let anyone but your brother know about it.

Because who else can you really tell the stories of the shadows you see on the ceiling every night to and have them listen? Who else is going to look up and return your knowing smile while you point out every bluebird? Is going to understand that while everyone else might have moved on to the spring and summer, you are slow to trust and still bracing for the cold?

No one. Perhaps they ask once in a while, but when they realise you have covered yourself in splinters and dewdrops it doesn't take much effort to encourage them to drop it.

And sometimes I wish I could be there to tell you that it's alright, and that you made it, and that you're safe. Because I too have fashioned armour out of ink and paper, so I know what it looks like inside and out. Razor-thin layers of moonstruck stanzas and paper cuts dripping with all the words you could never say out loud.

Because sure, this family of yours is broken, but what good does it do to put a voice to that? So you'll ignore the windstorm of frustration inside of you like always and take care of your brother. Even when the things that go bump in the night make you want to hide beneath the blankets instead.

But you were never meant to be such a battle-worn tree. The others looks at the bruises and knots laced across your bark and don't know what to do with you. They have no reason to fear the darkness like you do. And sometimes you can't understand why you haven't gotten better, when everyone else can still smile.

So you are sturdy and scarred little redwood, happy to cloak yourself in flashlights and daydreams to escape the uncaring world. You'll hardly miss anything anyway, you think, because who would care for a tree with nothing to offer but brittle leaves and melodramatic musings carved out of spiderwebs?

I suppose you forget that your friends and family still do. On a good day, or those nights where you stay up talking and smiling, maybe you do remember. Maybe in those moments you catch a shooting star and cling to the warmth as long as you can.

Mostly, though, you are tired, and worrying about too many things to count, and wish that you could bury yourself in your mattress for eternity. But you sigh, curl your fingers into harmless fists, and force yourself awake. Because the world is not going to wait for you to be ready, so you might as well roll with it.

And maybe you really weren't meant for this reality after all. Maybe you were always meant for holly-scented fogs and latticework paths of moss and dirt. But this reality is stuck with you now, and vice versa. So you have learned to adapt.

You wonder, sometimes, how your brother can still be made of butter cake and candles flickering with hope that never seems to peter out. Some people are just built differently, and it seems that you stitched yourself back together out of patchwork after being torn apart. That would make anyone fragile.

Perhaps you resent them a little, for being able to let their guard down. Yet deep down you know that your walls are too important to tear down, so you leave them be, waiting hopelessly for the day you meet someone who makes you change your mind.

But your roots are in quite deep, and I don't think you really believe you'll find someone. So you find comfort in the stories of other people's love. And the hopeless romantic in you tugs at your heartstrings to no avail.

Yet your eyes sparkle with moonlight and honeycombs from sleeping beneath the stars. You hardly notice, though it makes you seem like some sort of woodland spirit when combined with the smell of crisp leaves that follows you everywhere. The look is perfect on you.

I think you are a lovely, sturdy, and scarred little redwood. But the frosty nights are over now, so you can finally let your leaves be soft and soak in the spring. For you I would never write anything less than a happy ending.