As If At The Age Of Eighteen

I Don't Know. Just Because Someone's Pretty Doesn't Mean She's Decent. Or Vice Versa. I'm Not Into Appearances. I Like Flaws, I Think They Make Things Interesting.

But Those Words Were Only The Middle Of The Story. There Was A Beginning Here, Too.

Despite Our Differences, We Did Have A History. No One Understood Where I Was Coming From The Way He Did.

It Was Becoming Clear To Me That I Shouldn't Bother To Get Too Attached To Anything. Turn Your Back And You Lose It. Just Like That.

But She Wouldn't. I Knew That Already. My Mother And I Had An Understanding: We Worked Together To Be As Much In Control Of Our Shared World As Possible. I Was Suposed To Be Her Other Half, Carrying My Share Of The Weight. In The Last Few Weeks, I'd Tried To Shed It, And Doing So Sent Everything Off Kilter. So Of Course She Would Pull Me Tighter, Keeping Me In My Place, Because Doing So Meant She Would Always Be Sure, Somehow, Of Her Own.