She had thought she’d known what it meant to ache. But to ache for touch without ever having known it paled in comparison to aching for touch knowing exactly how sweet it could be. It had riled panic in her chest when he’d touched her, but only because she did not know how to stomach the thought that she had caused him pain. He’d told her that he didn’t feel and she had wanted to help him, but not like that. Never like that.

She had pined for him.
She had yearned before, certainly. Yearned for the love of her mother mostly.
But this, too, was different.

She has lived in the interim, as she is certain he has. She has wandered, considered finding a home for herself, watched as love manifested itself in the form of knock-kneed foals. He’d told her that he’d find her and she had no choice but to believe him, because to think that she’d never see him again surely would have driven her mad.

She wanders to the river now, melting snow as she goes, dips her electric mouth into the water for a long drink. And when she raises her fine head, she sees him. There on the opposite bank. And she flings herself into the water, its frigid temperature powerless to penetrate the heat of her as she scrambles up onto solid ground, chest heaving.

“You came back,” she whispers in breathless wonder, smiling soft.