Once upon a time, there was a lonely capital A.
It was terrified that if it ever spread its legs too far apart,
the little line in the middle would fall away.
This fear had been planted long ago—when A was still just a small, lowercase a.
Back then, it had been told that the greatest sign of growing up was the bar that would appear across its middle. And so,
A had made a promise: always keep the legs the same distance apart.
For A, walking wasn’t like it was for people.
It moved both legs at the same time—more of a hop than a step.
Even when it climbed stairs, it bounced, hop by hop.
In life, A was free to do anything it wished, as long as it kept its legs steady.
It had no other complaints about its body—well, not really.
After all, a friend of A’s always had to keep its back bent.
And there were others with far more inconvenient shapes.
So A had learned to live with it.
Growing up meant carrying certain responsibilities.
Do you know where A’s story really began?
It began the day A fell in love.
Those who know,
know: when you’re in love, you can’t keep your legs exactly the same distance apart.
Well—you can try. But it’s hard.
And A had no idea how hard it would be.
Love doesn’t arrive politely, giving you time to say,
“Oh, if I fall in love, what will happen to my middle bar?”
No—one day you simply realize your legs have drifted apart.
How did A know it was in love?
Because it trembled.
A’s legs never trembled.
And yet here it was, one afternoon, sitting on the curb
playing a game of counting people, when it happened.
Someone sneezed.
And with that sneeze, a few letters spilled out of their mouth onto the pavement.
A had never seen anything like it.
Sure, people sometimes laughed and lost a few letters—but this was different.
This was the most mesmerizing M A had ever seen.
Oh, those legs.
Oh, that perfect middle bar.
Oh, that flawless stance.
A was spellbound.
It took a deep breath, held its knees in its hands, and shouted into the street: