I hate that everyone calls it growing up, but it seems like DYING.
Nobody ever really sees me the way I am, underneath everything. But she did. She does.
One night you will ask me for something I cannot give.
Everything was strange and beautiful and swollen with possibilities.
She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.
It’s hard to look at Barron now, but I do. He’s smirking. His black hair and black suit make him into a shadow, as if I conjured some dark mirror of myself.