☆Featured in Teen Fiction's "Soul Deep" reading list☆
☆Featured in New Adult's "Mental Health" reading list☆
//COMPLETE & EDITED
I send him a string of paper airplanes: You're the sum of all tomorrows. And I'll say that tomorrow. And the day after...
"Put your make up on Get your nails done Curl your hair Run the extra mile Keep it slim So they like you"
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The daily schedule of Katherine Greene:
6:15 Get up
6:30 Eat breakfast
7:00 Catch the bus, and wonder if there is anything to look forward to at school
7:45 Lessons begin
4:45 Arrive back home, saying I'm too busy to eat a snack, and go for a run
6:00- 6:30 Do homework (or try to), and wonder if I'm experiencing a mid-life crisis and if I am, whether that means I'm going to die at 34 or not
6:50 Dinner (if it can be called that)
8:00- 9:00 More wondering why my life is the mess it is
And some hours later- sleep.
Note to self: do all of the above whilst trying to forget the fact that I'm hungry, so hungry, and that all I can think about for the entire day is food, food, food.
You see, everything was amazingly structured until Ashton McCoy frowned over something most people would just laugh at. Just like that one mistyped word in a long paragraph that makes you squirm in irritation. Something imperfect; a crack in a vase.
But cracks spread, and before you know it, you're usually standing in the middle of a porcelain heap. Fragments. Sharp edges. Crumbling powder.
It's been twenty minutes and I still feel irritatingly jumpy. Because I have the feeling that he caught a glimpse of the real me. The maybe-not-as-okay-as-I-seem me. The trying-to-hold-it-together me.
Maybe a fleeting look, but in a world where most people are blind, a brief second of truly seeing is...
Disconcerting.
I sneak another glance at him as the teacher explains an exercise on the board. A jolt of panic stabs me as I see him looking back at me, expression intent as though I'm the Biology problem that needs to be solved. I feel an unwelcome flush creep into my cheeks, and I turn away, unsettled. It's nothing, I try to convince myself. He's not staring at you because of anything, he's just...
He's just.....what?
Near the end of the lesson, I look down at my paper. My absent-minded doodles have formed a burger on a plate, surrounded with fries and a soda. I place the pen firmly down on my desk and look away from the drawing.
My stomach growls instinctively and I wrap an arm firmly around my torso in an attempt to keep the sounds in. Don't look at the burger. Don't think about the fries. Don't. My stomach whines and I look up at the ticking clock, willing the seconds to both speed up and slow down. In another life, I may have looked forward to hearing the bell ring for recess, but all I feel is an overwhelming sense of dread.
