“Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep… wait for the boy who kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you’re just as pretty without makeup on. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky his is to have you…. The one who turns to his friends and says, ‘that’s her.’”—
I don’t think this guy exists, but it’s nice to dream sometimes.
Her office was really small. Maybe not small for the kids who came to see her, but I felt out of place. Too big, too old for a place like this.
The backs of my thighs rubbed against the synthetic upholstery as I shifted to cross my legs. I wanted to lean back against the pillows but then my feet would hang off the couch. Always out of place, I thought.
She sat in one of those kid’s chairs. Oddly enough, she fit into it perfectly.
"So why are you here?" she asked me.
I don’t want to be here, I thought. But I need to be here.