Mom once showed me how she could change the meaning of a picture by framing it differently.
Am I really that difficult to talk to?
-No. It's me. It's me too. It's difficult.
He could still many years from now recall the scene in all its detail. The lock of hair she carefully placed behind her ear. The way the washing label stuck out from the neck of her tank top.
And I'm telling you this because I love you, that girl is never gonna go for you in that way. I'm sorry, she's just not. It's not your fault. I mean it's not her fault either it's... It's high school and like the hierarchy here? The status of looks and social skills. All this bullshit is stricter here than anywhere else in the world.