a glimpse into the past // pt. 1

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a/n: these are bits where piper begins to write the article, or tries to. these serve as a backstory while simultaneously getting to know her in real time. it'll make more sense later on, i hope.

I wish I remembered the moment when everything changed.

            I don't remember the first day of fifth grade. I wish I did. I wish I knew when he walked into my life and when he changed everything. I wish I knew, so that if I had a time machine, I would go back to that moment, and make it nonexistent.

            I would grab my eleven-year-old self and shake her by the shoulders, tell her, "You're loved and seen and worthy of so much more. Don't you dare sit next to him. Sit far, far away. And stay far, far away. Please."

            But what kills me the most is that I don't know when that moment was.

            I hate that my memory is blurred. I hate that the lines between sanity and safety got blurred and I hate that he had something to do with it.

            I hate that I let him break me. I hate that I let him into my life. I hate that I stayed silent for so long. I hate that I let him instill fear in me, but I can't blame myself. I was a fragile eleven-year-old searching for attention, longing for the feeling of being known and seen.

            I don't even remember when we made it official. When Miles decided we were 'dating,' or whatever you want to call it. It wasn't dating. It wasn't a relationship. Even if it was, it wasn't healthy.

            All I know, is that one day we were friends and hardly spoke to one another, and the next we were suddenly an item. I blame the class I was in. I was in a classroom with a dozen other kids who were in relationships, as stupid as it may sound, and I desperately wanted to fit in. Miles saw that. Miles saw my vulnerability and used it against me.   

+++

I blink and stare at the words on my laptop screen, the cursor blinking back at me, mocking me. It's waiting for me to type more words. But I don't. I can't.

            "That's enough for today," I breathe, speaking to myself, closing my laptop lid.

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