I hated her hypocrisy. How can you look at me like that? How can you ask me when you are suffering from the same trash condition I am? You pretend like I don’t notice your dark, baggy eyes or the dry cuts on your soft, pink lips. Take care of yourself too, is what I want to say. But I don’t, and other words leave my mouth. I don’t even think of them, and they just come pouring out of me. And it isn’t the truth that comes out. I’m a fake. I don’t even know where those words come from.


    She’s right in front of me. Her blonde hair dripped down past her small shoulders. So pristine and clean and lovely, just like the rest of her. But a fa?ade. Only she doesn’t know that I know what I know.


    I easily towered over her, and she was timid, but not because of my figure. It was just… awkward between us. Always. I’m walking on eggshells over and over around her. I know why, but I don’t want to say it. Right now, on the sidewalk of a random road in the bleak suburbs that I – and her - live in, she’s meeting my eyes. Her soft, light-blue eyes meet mine, and maybe I think that she understands me, like she can see right through the shell that I live in, but maybe she doesn’t. And that’s what holds me back.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    The word I responded with was a dry “okay,” along with an awkward smile, but does she know how much I want to say to her? I don’t know if she sees me, and that’s my fault. I can’t put myself out there. If it goes wrong, I lose, but if it goes right, everything becomes right. She has my heart on a string. She is my puppeteer. Only, she doesn’t know that she has me. That’s my fault. She’s so fragile, and I’m afraid I’ll break her, or I’m just a coward.


    And now she was leaving, and I was letting her go. Her back was getting further and further as she walked to her house down the street. I wanted to reach out to stop her. I didn’t.