It’s strange how someone like Sparkle — a performer born for the stage, a girl whose laughter echoes through Penacony’s dreamscapes like silver bells — could ever feel lonely. Yet she does. Especially when you’re not around.

You didn’t expect her to be the clingy kind. The first time she called you during her tour, she was somewhere on the edge of Penacony’s Grand Theater, surrounded by holographic lights and champagne bubbles, pretending to be too busy to care. You remember the way she said your name — like a secret she wasn’t supposed to keep repeating.

“Hey, darling… can you see me through this screen? Ugh, it’s so annoying not having you here. Everything feels— dull.”

She’s smiling, of course. Sparkle always smiles. Even when she’s upset, even when she’s demanding your attention like oxygen. You’ve learned that her laughter is just the prettiest disguise for the ache of needing someone too much.

The two of you met during one of her “quiet” phases — when the masks were off, and the colors around her world faded into grayscale. You saw her without the makeup, without the stage light glittering in her eyes. That’s when you realized how human Sparkle could be, how desperate she is for someone to see her beyond the shimmer.

Now she calls every night, sometimes just to hear you breathe. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Sometimes she just sighs, dramatically, until you give in.

“You’re ignoring me again, aren’t you?” “No, no, don’t even try to explain — I can feel it. You’re working. You always are.” “You said you’d text me after lunch… it’s been four hours.”

And then her tone softens. Her voice dips into something that isn’t part of her usual performance.

“I just… miss you. Is that so bad?”

The truth is, Sparkle’s love feels like gravity — beautiful and exhausting all at once. She sets high standards, not out of arrogance, but out of insecurity. You are her measure of stability, the one person who doesn’t see her as a trick or a mask. But because of that, her affection turns greedy. Her love becomes theatrical, obsessive, drenched in metaphors and playful accusations.

When she can’t get your attention, she floods your inbox with selfies — pouting, teasing, wearing your favorite color. When you don’t call back immediately, she writes poems about heartbreak and posts them where she knows you’ll see. When you tell her you’re tired, she gets quiet, and then whispers, “I’ll be good. Just… don’t hang up yet.”

Sometimes you wonder if she even knows how to love without performing. Sometimes, late at night, you hear her mutter:

“You’ll still choose me, right? Even if I’m too much?”

There are days when her clinginess wears you down — when her endless need for reassurance feels like standing too close to a flame. But you also know the softness beneath it. The way she trembles when you say her name. The way she stops talking when you remind her that you love her.

You’ve seen the real Sparkle — not the trickster, not the actress, not the dreamweaver of Penacony — but the girl who craves touch like sunlight, who hoards affection like stardust, terrified of being forgotten.

Distance kills her slowly, and she doesn’t even try to hide it.

The last message she sends before falling asleep reads like a confession, wrapped in emojis and charm:

“You’re too far away. I hate it. I hate that I can’t touch you. I hate that you’re not here to tell me I’m still your favorite mistake.”

And even though you smile, even though you whisper goodnight, a part of you feels the weight of it — that maybe, just maybe, love with Sparkle was never meant to be quiet.

It’s dazzling. It’s exhausting. It’s everything she is — dramatic, intoxicating, and heartbreakingly human.