when i was in seventh grade and the twilight series was at its peak, i truly based my life off the movies and tv shows id watch. even at twelve i wanted to apply some sort of meaning to my life – excitement, romance, meaning. in the end of the day everyone wants to feel special, even if its all a fucking lie coated in desires and daydreams. its all make believe (and maybe thats ok).

i pictured myself as bella (always wanting to be the main character; its my movie in my head after all) with the two guys that liked me, who i had nominated as my “edward” and my “jacob”.

through notes passed in classes, scribbled in glitter gel pen on pastel index cards, and the notebooks shared (we called them the banana bibles) that documented our daily, mundane twelve year-old lives – constant boy chatter, nicknames ranging from the twilight series to types of fruit, ketchup, and canned spaghetti and lists of the abercrombie jeans wed want, the colors of juicy velour sweatsuits wed dream of owning.

i looked back at the notebooks somewhat recently and i realized – we were fucking psychos (although looking back now its comedic even if it was never intended to be), analyzing the shit out of every small occurrence of the day, like the significance of that boy wiping tears off your face in science class after you argued with your friends.

maybe i still analyze the shit out of everything. im trapped in this cage that is my brain (think joe goldbergs cage from you), scrambling, panicking; i need control.

but at the same time, i sympathize. i sympathize with the need to create a drama in your head, to make the air feel alive again. i sympathize so much with our younger selves with wanting to create a story for ourselves, our narrative that was so genuinely and purely ours.

and looking back, its not all bad – instances like “edward” asking you to slide down the stair rail by the bus stop and reassuring you, “ill catch you if you fall,” made it notably one of the most memorable days of being in seventh grade. theres a hope that lives on those pages in glitter gel pen.

as an adult, i dont know if a hope like that exists anymore – a hope thats sweet, innocent. a hope that transforms your world (even if its for a day).

im not even sure i hope for anything at all anymore. at 26, its all the same fucking shit, day after day that i dont even hope anymore, except maybe for winning the lottery and an early retirement.

GFY, fleur