You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.

Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

I was too weak to walk. At least, I thought I was too weak. But in truth, I was too weak to try.

What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.

I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.