Placed on a shelf in the corner of the consignment store is a doll, slumped over just outside your peripheral vision. Her lavender hair is disheveled and her baby pink dress is torn. She's watched countless customers stroll in and out, and other toys be picked before her. Rarely, someone scoops her up and examines her closely, only to find that her porcelain is cracked and her ball joints creak and jump when moved. She's quickly put back. Nobody wants a broken doll, after all.
But sometimes she allows herself to dream. If somebody were to pick her, not despite her fractures, but because of them. Would there be anyone out there willing to caress her gently, fill her cracks, and realign her joints? Would they run soap and a brush through her hair for hours until it's silky smooth? Would they take a needle to her dress to patch it delicately with adoring flair? Would they be willing to put in the extra effort to make sure she doesn't shatter in the process?
The days pass by in a haze, her gaze turned towards the ground. The doll thinks only that dreams are foolish things, but that the cracks along her body are real.