The girl and the thing.

Here she was again, not writing in her secret book in Pages, but trying, scared, but still trying, to write here.

Who was she? What was happening?

She sat on her friend’s floor, at 177 Hamilton Street, trying to understand the answer to the question. She wanted to write in italics because it seemed fancier.

What is she? She had a boyfriend. She was slightly upset with him. She was upset. She was surprised at why she was upset. Honestly, she never thought these things would bother her. But they did. The things he did. 

Sensitive. She was sensitive. She was not a nice person. Jealous. Possessive. She felt ashamed at how she felt. Insecure. These words made her feel unhappy. Made her insides jitter. 

She wanted to write them out, but that would just make them feel real. She did not feel real. What is happening? She was forgetting her words. 

Looking around, trying to understand.

The things people did.

She was hurt. By everything. What did she want?

Just hold me close, hold my hand, and know. Don’t ask me, just know. She wasn’t the girl with the ‘big personality’, she was confused.

“You’re irrational,” her brother would tell her oft.


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