You push yourself, higher and higher. Your feet struggled to meet the ground, their sandal-clad toes strain on pointe. You wanted help but you can't say a thing. Your throat has closed up against your will, but really it doesn't matter. They would've been deaf to your words anyway.
You can't describe this strange feeling within you as you watch them from afar. It's this sudden realisation that somehow you've managed to hate the person you love most. She is part of yourself, the external personification of your soul, yet she is much better than you are. They are cooing over her little medal now, the one from Junior Netball. When was the last time you had that kind of attention?
You strain your seven-years-old body to fly even higher on your lonely swing. If they would only turn around, perhaps you'll find the courage to say "Watch me touch the sky!"