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Counting. Counting is calming.

Counting is how I function.

My therapist is very proud of me for my counting. She says it's a huge accomplishment. That it’s leaps worth of progress.

I’ll admit it’s nice to hear.

Even though I know she’s using a reward system for good behavior and practically tricking me into doing this, I don’t mind too much.

I’ve gotten good at counting.

She tells me so. I think it’s important. She says there has never been a Counter like me before. It’s all lies, all flattery, and frankly doesn’t even make sense.

But I AM good at counting.

I’m good with numbers, and calculations. People say I’m weird, and I guess they’re right since I have a therapist I see twice a week. Only, I would supposedly be weirder without the therapy, so who knows what's weird and what’s not weird? I suppose it’s all subjective.

My therapist likes to talk about subjectivity. She says that everything is relative and subjective and different for everybody. She says that so I don’t feel bad when my progress is slow. But I do understand relativity, so it makes sense. Numbers are relative, and that makes sense. But now I’m not making sense, so I’ll stop. Stop being weird.

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Lately, I see everything in pairs of seven. Everything comes in a countdown from 7 or a countup to 7. Well, I say lately, I mean today. I woke up today and the numbers I usually see had rearranged themselves into pairs of seven. My therapist took a lot of interest in that when she came to pick me up before lunch. She asked me a lot of questions. But she always does that. About all my numbers. She tells me I’m doing well, that the counting seems to be helping.

It does seem to be.

I don’t get upset like I used to. I don’t get uncontrollable fits of anger or sadness or happiness. I’ve found a steady calm, so long as I keep counting and keep calculating everything.

After lunch, my therapist took me to my mentor, who helps me with my counting and my calculations. He likes to tell me how good I am, and how good I’ve got with my counting, and he tells me how proud he is of me. I think he must either be related to my therapist or at least is her client as well because they say a lot of similar things.

After I’ve completed all my assignments with my mentor, he gives me some homework and my therapist takes me to have dinner with a couple of old men. I don’t mind too much because I get to go off camp and the old men just ask my therapist a lot of questions, about me and my day mostly. Sometimes my therapist makes me answer some questions, but for the most part, I just get to eat my dinner in peace.

Not many others get the opportunity to go off camp, and certainly don’t get such fancy dinners, so it really doesn’t bother me at all that they ask me so many questions about me as if I’m not there.

I see waiters come out, and 7 in total. Fascinating. Why does everybody and everything get 7 today? There are seven notes in the awful music playing from the speakers. 7 beats too. 7 seconds of pause in the conversation around me.

I turn to my therapist, to find she is staring at me oddly, as if waiting for me to tell her what I’ve seen. I hadn’t realized she could tell when I was seeing numbers. For some reason, this does bother me.

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I calm down again, and my therapist is concerned, I can tell, but she is trying not to show it because I am not a problem, according to her, just special, different, and there’s no reason to be concerned. I point to the corners of the room. Do you hear it? I ask her, she glances in that direction.

“Hear what? The mu--”

7. Do you hear the 7?

She swallows rather noticeably, which is not usual for her. She usually is so controlled. Her voice is still as controlled as ever as she shakes her head. “Not really. Explain to me. Why do you hear 7?”

I feel my mouth curl down in displeasure, because I don’t know WHY. I never know the why of my numbers, I just know they exist, and she knows this.

She winces, apparently realizing her error. “Yes, of course. How do you hear 7?”

The beat. The notes. The waiters. I explain it to her as she nods solemnly.

“Good, good. Very good. You are recognizing patterns. That is very good, that is improvement. ”

The old men are nodding around her, like they have the same body and do everything together, which is weird.

Ha. There are 7 of you too. 7 steps, 7 windows, 7 clouds, 7 birds, 7 assignments, 7 papers, 7 homework, 7 problems, 7 minutes.

“Shh.” My therapist is scribbling things down in her notebook that she always carries around. “Count.” She looks in my eyes.

I count. From 7.

I stare at the fork on my table, 7 millimeters from my plate. I stare at the old man across from me. His tie is seven degrees askew. Ha. I feel a grin stretch across my face. Everything is in so much unison, so much cohesion. 7. Everywhere. Hahaha. 7. Countdown time. Tomorrow, tomorrow I know there will be six. Hahaha.

I look at my therapist, and grin at her, because she should understand. The beauty in the unison. The numbers all agree with each other. Patterns. I tell her. Patterns.

She smiles at me, but her eyes never move, as usual. “Yes.” She says, “Yes, patterns are good.”

Tomorrow, there will be six. I tell her. And I grin, because I’ve cracked it. The problem, the equation, today’s assignment. Tomorrow, there will be 6.

She blinks. “6, is that so?”

I frown at her, because she doesn't question my equations or my observations. She wouldn’t understand them anyway. I always KNOW when I’m right, and she couldn't know better than me. I nod anyway, feeling my irritation but knowing she doesn’t like it when I get irritated or angry. We’ve already solved that problem. 6 tomorrow. 5 the next day.

“Everything is just going to, disappear?”

I frown, but shrug. I nod.

She nodded slowly. “You said 7 waiters.”

This is getting annoying, but I nod again. 7 of you too. I point at each of the old men. They blink together. I grin at that.

“And,” She pauses, “Tomorrow there will only be six?”

I nod triumphantly, because that is WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING.

“Where,” she pauses again--strange--, “Where will the seventh go?”

I blink this time, because I don’t THINK about that kind of stuff. I don’t think about the why of my equations or how the equations will prove themselves true. They just DO. I glare at her, and shrug. Tomorrow, 6. I insist. Next day, 5.

“And, and when,” she’s stuttering and pausing now--fascinating. “When we reach 0?”

I blink.

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I shrug.

You were so perfect.

In fact, you were so perfect it hurt. You were so perfect you were killing me. You made me think about you—all the damn time. Because, you were so perfect.

I never thought it would happen to me, but you made me lay awake at night, unable to sleep, because you. didn’t. love. me. back. You didn’t think of me. You didn’t miss me when we didn’t stay in contact for 3 days and 1 week. You didn’t want me the way I wanted you.

Why?

Wasn’t I good enough?

Was I not perfect too?

My heart is aching, because I look in the mirror and I can see what you see. I see my almond shaped eyes. I see my wide cheek bones. I see my baby fat. I see the extra layer of fat all aorund my middle. I see my stocky thighs. I see my eyelashes that don’t curl. I see my flat chest. I see my nose that curves up at the tip.

I see it all and I don’t cry because I’m not sad. No, I’m mad. I’m mad at so much. You, for being so perfect. You for taking up so much of my mind and controlling my emotions. My heart is aching so much and beating so hard I wonder how long it will be able to keep up this pace.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. How can you be taking so much from me, without my permission, without even doing anything ‘wrong’, yet doing everything so wrong?

My heart still aches and beats and beats and beats. Be still, my heart. My heart is mine. Not yours. You do not control it. You do not own it. I have not given it to you.

I am perfect. I am so perfect. I am perfectly perfect. I am beautiful.

You were perfect. You were so perfect, I let myself be blinded. I let myself be blinded to your faults. The single emoji response 27 minutes and 8 hours after I sent my text. The attention you give to your phone even when you are alone with me. The mind of yours that can’t make up its mind on me. The one that will check in on me, but without any commitment. The hours you spent talking to me, but didn’t follow up on. The phone that didn’t buzz after you confused me with 8 hours of conversation. The time you let me stay over at your place until 4 A.M., alone, together, laying close, then sending me home. Hitting me up only when you want a party to go to. The way you let it all happen on your terms. The way you shrug off all my invites.

I ignored all that. I was blinded by the other moments. The perfect moments. When you made me laugh by bringing up my acomplishments over and over again. The way you would squint your eyes in exaggerated confusion, just to make me snicker. Playing utterly pointless games just to pass the time. The way you always get the door for me. The way you insisted on getting my drink for me. Taking an interest in my passions that you had never dabbled in. The way you linger. The way you looked out for me. Walking out to meet me even though I was already headed in your direction. The way you looked at me as you played the ukelele for me. The way you remembered little things I said 2 days and three weeks back.

Did you mean to lead me on? Was it your intention to send me mixed signals? Or was I reading into everthing, too much, just because I wanted to? Were you playing me, using me, or was I playing myself? Was I making a fool of myself? Over you?

You weren’t perfect, but you were. You made me feel so good, and so bad. My heart beat in protest, telling me to let you go, and I did, but you always came back, wrecking my heart all over again, killing the life in me, the purpose in me, killing my productivity. You were killing me with your perfection, and I fucking loved every moment. I let you, but I can’t anymore, because I have to live my life.

I am my own person. This is my life, my heart. Not yours.

So this is to you, the boy with the hair you would push back so sexily. The boy with the eyes that would stare deep in to mine when we talked. The boy with the high nose you were so proud of and with the pale skin. The boy with so many passions and accomplishments it made me feel inferior. The boy who was such a show off, but had the right to be. The boy who was 5 foot 9 and wanted that extra inch. The boy with the tattoos on his back, the boy who loved and took protecting his family very seriously. The boy who I could talk to for hours that were only a few minutes. The boy with that lean, athletic body I fantasized about way too much. And who obessed over that very body of his own way too much.

You were so perfect even though you weren’t, and as much as it hurts me, I have to let you go. Before you take over my life, before I die inside.

I’ll miss you. Even though you never actually gave me anyhting, I’ll miss you. But I’ll be better off without you.

I will be able to breath once I let you go. I’ll be able to be perfect again once I silence your voice from my head. I will be able to love myself again when I stop loving you so hard there’s nothing left to go around for me.

I will let you go, even though I never even had you, and will free myself from your claws.

How much did I even actually want you? How much of it was actually just an infatuation? I don’t know. But now that you’re gone, I can finally breathe again. I’m finally me again. I can be me. I’m alive again.

I look in the mirror and my eyes are alive. They sparkle. My eyebrows are looking naturally fly. My lips are plump and soft, I mean, who wouldn’t want to kiss them? My cheek bones are sharp and sexy. My lashes are dark and thick. And my HAIR. Don’t even get me started on that luxuriously 70% cacao chocloate brown mane, shimmering in the light. My curves look good in this sexy red Calvin Klein t-shirt you remember.

Girls don’t need boys. Girls don’t even need men. All we need is our own beauty, and the boys will come panting.

Girls don’t need boys, and I don’t need you. I don’t even want you anymore. You were too imperfectly perfect. I will never forget you, but you never were mine, and I never was yours.

I’m just mine. My life, my heart, the air I breath is all mine, and don’t anyone ever try to take it from me again. I almost died because of you. How would that have made you feel, the unwitting murderer of a beautiful girl who was ready to give you the world, her world? You wouldn’t have seen it for the treasure it would have been.

You are still here, but you are gone, and I am free.

Time flies.

So fast

So fast.

Time accelerates.

So fast

So fast.

I can’t keep up.

Just the other day,

Just a little while ago,

Just,

Yesterday, I was still back home,

saying, I’m almost off to college!

Last week, I was still with family,

saying, finally finished with applications!

2 weeks ago, I was with childhood friends,

saying, imagine, in 3 years I’ll be old enough for college!

3 weeks ago, I was still in middle school,

saying, what even is college?

1 month ago, I was in elementary school,

saying, guys, look at my new mountain bike!

2 months ago, I was still 6 years old,

saying, Dad, look at my 1st day of school colored pencils!

3 months ago, I was still Daddy’s baby girl,

saying, look at my ballet tutu, it’s pink!

2 minutes ago, I was happy, content,

saying, I got this all together!

3 minutes ago, I was lonely, depressed,

saying, nobody knows me in this country!

Right now, I’m just a college girl,

saying, I got stuff to do that won’t get done by itself!

What can I say?

Time flies.