I was four years old when I wrote my first story. My older brothers had come home from school talking about a writing competition. I wanted to enter it, but for some reason no one wanted a four year old's story. My wonderful mother suggested I write one anyway. It just made sense to me. I'd been reading for at least a year at that point and absolutely loved it, so why wouldn't I try to create a story like the ones I cherished so deeply? The story was about a bald eagle named Baldy (real original, I know) who had trouble making friends because he was bald. Eventually he met a few other animals, including a bear (I think), and they became friends with him despite his baldness. I admit, I'm a little bit fuzzy on the rest of the details. Give me a break though. I was four. 

Why do I write now though? For all sorts of reasons, I suppose. I just love it. I love putting my thoughts into words. I'm not a big talker, but sometimes I need to say something. Writing is good for that. Sometimes I just have a crazy idea that I want to turn into a story because it's the kind of thing I want to read. Sometimes I write to help myself and others understand someone else's point of view. Sometimes I write because everything in my life is crazy, and I need to create something I have some semblance of control over. Sometimes I write to remind myself that I can. Actually, the more I write about writing, the more I'm realizing that the reason I write changes with just about every thing that I write. So I guess I write because writing is the one thing that I can turn to regardless of the situation, mood, or mind-set I'm in. Whatever I want to accomplish, writing can help me get there.

Really. I am. Just ask anyone. They all know. They see my smiling face each day. They hear the words of positivity flowing from my lips. I'm perfectly fine. Everything is okay. 

I mean, sure, I feel lost sometimes. And maybe I want to scream at the world. And occasionally I cry myself to sleep because of the invisible gouges I feel. But that's not important. I'm fine. I always have been. Even when I can't eat because of anxiety. Or when I can't find the motivation to pick myself up off of the floor. Or when I have to run away from others so I don't concern them with my waterlogged, bloodshot eyes and return with a slightly less convincing smile. Or when that emptiness in my chest is gnawing away at itself to create a larger, gaping black hole that can never be filled. During it all, I promise you, I'm fine. Just look at how happy I am to see you. Listen to my laugh. Would someone who's not fine be able to laugh like that? No. I didn't think so.

It's pretty simple. I saw a billboard that had the G. K. Chesterton quote, "Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere." It stuck with me sort of as a call to action. There have been all sorts of interpretations of the quote, but I just felt like it was telling me to begin somewhere and see where it leads. I'm the kind of person who plans everything out in advance and has trouble starting anything if I don't already know how I'll make it perfect. However, I've recently started just beginning things I really want to do but have been afraid of for so long. Creating this account a few months ago was one of the ways I did that.

When am I ever going to get this boy out of my head??? I have more pressing matters to think about than Reggie Earl Thomas. But what can I say? He's amazing. Seriously, everything I find out about him makes me like him more and more, and it's driving me crazy! The chances of the first guy I ever really liked being the last are slim, and he probably doesn't like me anyway. Besides, I'm only sixteen! Everything about it it illogical, but my brain can't seem to convince my heart to let go. I hate being a teenage girl! I mean, really! He's got blonde hair, blue eyes, and all the girls like him. He's exactly the kind of guy I was certain I would never like. 

But he seems to have such a kind heart, and he's bold and seems to have exactly the kind of character I would look for if I was looking for a husband. But I'm not! And I really wish he would get out of my head. I can't think clearly when he's around, and I can't think about anything else when he's not. That's frustrating! I respect him. I admire him. I aspire to be like him in many ways. The only bad thing I can say about him is that he won't stay out of my head, and that's not his fault. 

The first thing Dad said when he saw him was, "Well there's someone who thinks he's God's gift to the world. He just drips arrogance." Dad didn't know who he was. He's usually right about that kind of thing. It scares me because I feel so blinded. What if he really is an arrogant jerk, and I just can't see it? I don't see how he could be, but that's the thing about being blinded. You don't know what you can't see. 

But when there was someone sitting alone, Reggie would go talk to them. At the dance, he danced with the people no one else danced with. I never heard him say anything bad about anyone. He is always willing to help if anyone needs a hand. When I was just going to walk past him at the dance, he stopped me to say goodbye and compliment my singing, of all things, and then found a way to cover up my awkwardness when I stood there with my mouth open trying to figure out what to say. He's good at a lot of things, but he doesn't let it go to his head. He's still super kind to everyone. I remember the look on his face when a girl hurt her leg years ago. He was truly concerned and was doing everything he could to help. He cares about everyone. And as much as I wish it wasn't true, I deeply care about him.

He inspires me. When I'm around him, I just want to be a better person. That's something I don't see in anyone else who is even close to my age. I'm hopeless. I can't even be frustrated long enough to write this. Reggie is just such a kind, caring person who is doing his best to live a good life. How can I possibly not like that? 

I know I'm just setting myself up for heartbreak, but I don't know how to stop. I was that girl who loved horses, not boys. I wasn't going to be like the other girls. I wasn't going to fall in love. To even call it that sounds stupid. I'm only sixteen! What do I know about love? I've become exactly the girl I always laughed at.

Eighteen. That's when I decided I'd allow myself to kind of like someone. I knew it would happen at some point. But not before eighteen. Boy was I wrong. Why did I have to be wrong? Why can't I focus on other things? I can't even bring myself to blame Reggie. It's this stupid heart of mine. I can't be mad at him; I'm only frustrated with myself. He'll never understand all of this, and that makes me incredibly sad. It's so stupid. I just need to let him go and focus elsewhere. That's a whole lot easier said than done though. 

I've been lying. I don't wish I could get him out of my head. I wish I was eighteen, and he liked me the way I like him. That's what happens when you're a teenage girl.

Why do I try to make peace? You certainly don't. I gave up everything to come here and help you. Everything. And what do I get in return? Hatred. Betrayal. Envy. Suspicion. All I did was try to help. Why don't you see that? Why are you so convinced that I have evil intent behind every word? 

You don't even know what I've done. You don't know how I feel. Every time I go to see you I get sick. That's how much stress you cause. My body is full of pain. So much pain. I'd go to a doctor if I didn't know the cause. But I do. It's you. But I go anyway. You know why? Because I still have hope. Stupid me always has hope. And if there is ever even the tiniest sliver of hope, I will try to make things better. I keep giving. I keep caring. Why? Why do I give you anything? You don't deserve it.

But maybe you do. Or maybe no one does. Maybe deep down you've been hurt too. Maybe that's why you act like this. But I'd never know because you won't even talk to me. You have your minions do the talking for you. I have to go through them. They give me a little more hope. And then you dash it. It's gone. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep causing myself so much pain for you when you're just going to keep doing the same things and make my life more and more miserable. No. I have to stop.

I can't stop. I have to try. I may die trying. 

I'm running out of time. Life only gave me twenty years and I'm only ten days away from my death date. I have to finish my story before it gets here or there's no telling what Life will do to me. No one's ever died before without finishing their final chapter. Even Millie was able to complete a story about defiant trees a full month before her death. Why am I struggling so much with it?

 To be honest though, I just don't want to write. I mean, I have ten days left. Can't I experience life instead of just sitting around imagining someone else's? But if I don't...

Surely Life won't actually torture me for eternity if I don't finish it, right? Life can't be that cruel. But is it worth the chance? Of course, if it is true, I'd still be remembered forever as the Defyer of Life. That'd be kind of cool. Maybe someone will write their story about me one day. 

You know what? I'll take it. My story just isn't ever going to....

Song: "Bird with a Broken Wing" by Owl City

You've trusted me. You've told me about everything. The pain. The sorrow. The doubt and fear. And then you asked me to meet you. In such a short time, I've come to know you so well. At least, I think I do. But you see, I've experienced pain too. I don't know what to do. If I go, it could be the best day of my life. Or it could be the worst. There really is no in-between. What if you're not who you seem? 

I'm not ready to make that decision. The stakes are too high. I can't handle it. So I go shopping instead. I don't even like shopping. The whole time, I think of you. My shoulder begins to ache. My stomach begins to clench. My head pounds. My heart races. As it gets closer and closer to the time I would have met you, it gets worse. 

Finally, I go back home.

I see you the next day. I walk straight toward you and you hold out your hands. I take them in mine and breathe deeply.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That I didn't call you. That I didn't meet up with you. That you have pain in your life. I don't know. I'm just sorry."

I forget all my qualms when I see a smile on your face. 

"Hey, don't worry about it. Okay?"

You gently squeeze my arm and I know everything has been forgiven. Next time, it won't have to be.