𝑜𝓌𝓁𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝒻𝓉 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝒷𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒹𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒽𝑜𝓉 𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝑔𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓂 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓉𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈.

𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒪𝒸𝓉𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓇.

hold your microphone with shaking hands

your tie feels too tight and your shoes too thin

the demons behind the cameras watch your head spin

round and round, little weatherman,

tired of tornadoes? i bet you wish you ran

but you can’t, can you, you’re drawn up with strings

and the show isn’t over till the weatherman screams.

𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝓇𝒾𝒷𝒷𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓈𝒶𝓁𝓉𝓎 𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝒸 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒹𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓀 𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒷𝓁𝓊𝑒 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒾𝓃𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒻𝒶𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝑜𝑜𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸.

𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒮𝑒𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇.

𝒜𝓊𝑔𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒽𝑜𝓉, 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝓋𝒾𝓃𝓉𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓉𝑜𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑜𝒸𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹

𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸.

𝐼 𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒜𝓊𝑔𝓊𝓈𝓉.

Pebbles, skipping stones, stepping stones, boulders— it doesn’t matter. Everyone carries them. Each problem is a stone; they fill your bag, your pockets, your shoes, your mouth. Problems never stop appearing. Many people go around picking up problems and throwing them at their neighbor.

What happens when you have too many stones to carry? When the weight is too much and your back is about to break? Who do you go to?

You go to the therapist friend, and you give them your stones.

You give me your stones.

You gave me all your stones because you thought I was stronger but I’m not. My bag is just bigger.

With everyone else’s stones in by bag, be they pebbles or boulders, I have no room for my own. I don’t give them to anyone else— their bags are all full. Instead I sew up another bag and fill it with my own problems.

I add it to my back.

Again and again.

I say it’s not a problem, but the truth is, I am no Frodo Baggins. I’m not making trips to Mount Doom and throwing all the rocks in. I’m just Christian, carrying a burden on my back.

Make no mistake, I find joy in my friends’ relief. When the pebbles no longer fill their mouths and they can breathe again. When they begin to stand up straight because their bag is bearable now.

The thing is, Christian left his burden at the cross. He looked upon it and was freed. I forget to do that. I walk on and on, pockets and mouth and bags full of stones, and I try to do it on my own. I leave my therapy room and go home to an empty house. Oh, that's my issue; because the house isn’t really empty, is it? I have my Lord with me at all times. He is the only true problem solver, the only true therapist. He’s the only one who can really destroy burdens. Yet I do not talk to Him. Yet I try to do it on my own. I ignore the cross in the corner and the craziest part is it brings me no gain.

I can only fail.

We are not built to carry burdens alone— ours or anyone else’s.

So, to all you therapist friends out there: I see you. I know how you feel. But I’m not the only one who does. Christ always sees your burdens, and He is the only one who can banish them. Keep doing your friends a good service. Be a good listener. Offer advice if you have any. But set boundaries, ask Christ to guide you, and don’t let yourself get weighed down by it all. You aren’t meant to be. Nobody is. Give it to Christ every time, every night if you have to, because that’s the only way to be free.

To all you out there who are grateful for your therapist friend: let them know. Check in on them once in a while. Use discretion if you think you should push them on something to make sure they’re really okay. It can be hard for us to get over our pride. Take care of each other and respect boundaries.

xoxo,

Soph

love is stupid and makes you blind

love does not envy, love does not boast

love has a way of turning you into a ghost

love always protects, love always hopes

love makes my heart feel bound up by ropes

he asks if writing hurts me

to which I reply

“the ink is my blood; the pen, my bone;

the paper, my skin; the words, my home.”

Walking Contradiction

I’m a walking contradiction, vicious yet fair

You’ll catch me throwing knives with flowers in my hair

Long skirts won’t stop me from climbing each tree

And blood under my nails won’t make me late to tea.

I’m a walking contradiction, happy yet sad

One moment I’m weeping, then see a bird and I’m glad

The moon hollows my chest, the sun fills my veins

Love gives me joy and love gives me pains.

I’m a walking contradiction, chained yet in flight

Against myself I put up a fight

How do you end a war when both sides are right?

Blue

i see you as blue,

but not my same shade

your heart is mine’s twin,

but they lack the same face

Colored

What a blessing and a burden it is to carry a heart so colored with love

The Girl in the Mirror

Girl in the mirror, why do you cry?

i don’t like my hair, i don’t like my eyes

Girl in the mirror, you’re the fairest of all

i don’t barely stand at five feet tall

Girl in the mirror, I wish you weren’t mean; when you insult yourself, you’re insulting me

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i wish i were loved

Girl in the mirror, oh, you would see

How much you are loved if you stopped studying me.

Ouch

“I love you.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“What’s the last lie you told me?”

“I love you.”

I know this is all random, but I love sharing with you all. Thank you for reading and I hope some of these words meant something to you. <33

xoxo,

Soph

We just stand there for a moment, pointing, before she speaks. “What are you doing? Why are you wearing a suit?”

“Well,” I lower my arms, “I’m… Spidergirl.” It seems awkward to say that to someone who very clearly thinks I’m stealing her identity.

“What? I’m Spidergirl. Are you an impostor?” She lunges forward, firing a web, but I flip out of the way just in time.

Several dodges later I throw out my hands for her to stop. “Look, I…” I’m very out of breath is what I am. I pull off my mask and attempt to make my hair nicer. “I’m not trying to be you. I’m just a regular girl.”

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“Except you can jump and flip five feet into the air? You’re nothing normal.” (I tried not to take offense.) “You’re… you really are like me.” She pulls off her hot pink mask– which honestly is stylish– and I’m surprised at her wide smile. I scrutinize her blue-green eyes, highlighted brown hair, and the matcha she’s holding.

I guess she seems alright.

“I’ve been Spidergirl for ages, ‘cept I moved here a year ago and ‘worked’ in a small town before that. You know, small town robberies and stuff.”

“Well, I’m Spidergirl–” she sips her matcha that I’m growing jealous of– “and I’ve been Spidergirl here for about five months.”

“Oh,” I say but my mind is already racing. Two Spidergirls? I didn’t think that was possible. I was bit by a spider while I was on vacation in Hawaii. I don’t know what it is about those spiders down there, but it gave me crazy abilities. Just like in the comics. Except there was no Peter Parker that I knew of, just me. “I’m Sophie, Sophie Parker.”

She grins, and something in me says we’re going to get along very well. “I’m Novelyn Watson. Welcome to Queens, Spidergirl. Looks like you’re my new partner in crime.”

Leaves away, nor if he may steal the breeze

How impolite! How simply rude is he

Encasing worlds in such a cruel freeze

Winter digs those flowers’ graves and tucks these

All away. Icy trees and ghosts of leaves

Haunt me day to day; oh, when will it end?

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It ends with Spring, the kind gravedigger, joy!

Her face is sublime! Her smile, sweet bend!

Bright April days, yes, flowers she’ll employ

Lovely Spring’s dress is pink, her shoes, bright green

Soft hair, long legs, so darling to be seen.

She lengthens the days, she brings back the bees.

Replenishing rain our Spring gives the ground.

Make way for Summer and her dirty knees!

She’s spreading joy, sunshine and love all ‘round.

Dear, sweet, Summer! Take me ‘way! She’s my Muse:

With her clear voice she banishes my blues.

Ocean waves! Blissful days! Our hearts do rest.

Her bright blue gazes catches me in a snare.

Any who look upon Summer are blest.

She brings hot storms and lightning everywhere.

Yellow’s her color, corn and sunflowers,

Gardens the product of those Apr’l showers.

Oh, but alas, as Isaiah has said:

“The flowers shall fade” as good Autumn falls.

Dry grass and pumpkin vines she makes her bed

Life she gilds with gold, even the crow’s calls.

The days start to shorten– her time flies by

Yet my best mem’ries lie ‘neath Autumn’s sky.

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It’s been one year since I moved to Queens.

Eleven months since I gave up being the one and only Spidergirl.

How can I be the friendly neighborhood hero when the neighborhood wants itself dead? When the crime is so rampant that for a month straight I ran on one hour of sleep every day, juggling being a hero and a regular Junior in highschool? How can one 16-year old blonde keep up with traffickers and thieves and gangs? I remember the night in the alley eleven months ago. Pinned against the wall by a figure wearing a Scream mask. Could’ve been an 18-year old in a halloween costume, as far as I knew– but they were a villain and they had just beaten the pulp out of me. My black mask lay on the ground. My hair was a rat’s nest. My face was so worn from the lack of sleep and beaten up from the punches that I wasn’t even worried about my identity.

They dropped me in the alley.

I gave up.

I lay there for a full five minutes, face on the cold wet pavement, before getting up. I had to get up, because I was Spidergirl. Then I went home, washed my suit, and stuffed it far back in my tiny closet.

It’s been there since. Now I’m laying on my bed in a puddle of sunlight, ignoring my pile of homework and staring into the closet with hate. I hate the suit because it means I have a duty. I hate the suit because when I’m wearing it, I have to always get back up, because that’s what a hero does. I hate the suit because it makes me feel like a fake. I hate the suit because it’s a stark reminder of everything I’m not and everyone I’m failing.

“Sophie?” Aunt May opens my door. “Gwen is here.”

I jump out of bed, excited to hang out with my only friend, Gwen Stacy. I’m one foot out the door when I feel that tingling in the back of my brain; my scalp goes tight and the hairs on my neck stand up. I turn just in time to see a flash of pink… swing by my window.

What the he–

“Hey, Aunt May, I don’t feel so good,” I shout down the hallway. “Sorry, Gwen!” I shout louder. “I’ll hang out tomorrow.”

I slam the door and dash to my closet. As much as I don’t want to be Spidergirl right now… there’s something very wrong, I can tell. It takes five minutes to put the suit on– hey, have you ever tried wearing full spandex? I didn’t think so. I throw open the window, leap out of our 50th-floor apartment, and free fall. Despite everything, I’m filled with exhilaration.

Over the streets of Queens I go, falling back into my familiar rhythm and enjoying the way the sun warms my suit. I have no idea where I’m going, but I keep relying on my instinct until another flash of pink catches my eye.

I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

Standing on top of my favorite cafe is a girl. Not just any girl.

A Spidergirl, just like me.

You wore a rain-soaked dress. It stuck to your knees. You twirled in a circle and for a moment, you seemed like a little girl. Not like sixteen— and now seventeen.

You were blue.

The thing is, you’ve never been a sad blue to me. You’ve always been like a storm, yes, but I love storms; I love rain; it is refreshing and feels like a thousand kisses from the sky.

You’ve always been like the ocean, yes, but I adore the ocean; it is my favorite thing; it is calm and vicious and deep and wide and understanding and kind and wholly itself.

You’ve always been like a sapphire, yes, but sapphires are more than cold rocks; they are the ring on my mother’s finger; they are the color of my eyes; they are like midnight turned corporeal.

You’ve always been blue. Like flowers, like freedom, like puddles, like birds, like berries, like gowns, like the night sky, like the color I wear most often. Blue is beautiful. Blue is you. Blue is not always sad, and neither do you have to be. When you are sad, because it does happen (and that’s okay), you can always reach out to me. I’ll send you as much yellow as you need and tint your life with a little green.

You are loved, Vivi, so much. So dearly. Happy seventeenth birthday. I hope it is just as wonderful as you are.

Sending you all my love, all the stars, and all the sunflowers,

your guardian angel.

🪽🌻

Soph

I’m driving at night again, but the road seems different than usual. Far longer. More curves than I can remember. I pass into the shadow between streetlamps, and all at once, my car is very cold. Something is sitting in the backseat. I do not say hello. I do not tell it to leave. I do not even look at it, yet I know it is there.

The next streetlamp is so far away, much farther than a regular road in a regular town. There is nothing normal about this town. The darkness between the lamps is thick. Not a mere shadow on the ground– rather, a cloud I drive through while the headlights make futile attempts to help me see.

Streetlamp. Darkness. Small creatures running in hordes across the road. I barely miss them. Something is still in the backseat. It tells me inside my head that it is a friend.

One last curve and I am finally in the town triangle. I do not look in my rearview mirror. Was my radio always on?

Deja vu (is that the name of the thing in the backseat?).

I sleep in the church.

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The rain is pouring down, but with my suit being waterproof and all, it just feels like a massage. I’m not even cold.
Shifting my weight from side to side while I crouch, thoughts are running through my head. Kinda stupid ones, like “my hair net is adjusted weird and it’s itchy.” Or “this rain is really making me need to pee.” And— oh, what’s that?
Someone is riding a… skateboard? But they aren’t kicking at all? They’re going faster now. Riding on the road, too— what are the sidewalks even for these days— going at least 20mph.
Mega suspicious.
I run along the rooftops until the town triangle’s buildings end. Between lampposts now, swinging silent as a… well, spider. Ha ha.
Soph, ya gotta focus.
Sorry, this whole ADD thing is killing me.
Anyway, I follow him all the way down to Dollar General. Which is closed. Selfishly, I’m glad for a little action, but if I can’t stop this chat then it’s not gonna be so nice for the managers.
This “chat” in question is dressed real regular in a rain jacket and jeans. The only weird thing about him is his electric skateboard (I guess) which he kicks up under his arm before striding to the doors. He kinda looks like he expects them to open, which I think is stupid, cause it’s eleven PM. I’m peeking around the corner of the store now. I love my suit. Black doesn’t necessarily blend in, but it does make me a lot harder to see. And if I’m being honest, the whole blue-and-black-design thing I have going on is hot. Anyway again ARGHHH
The assumed robber is now forcing the doors open with a crowbar— where’d he get that?— and running inside. I run after him, scare him, and web him up when he jumps in surprise.
“Look,” I say, “I freaking love this store. It has everything. But do us all a favor and get a job or something if you wanna shop.”
He’s shouting some really rude obscenities at my back while I walk out, but I’m suddenly so tired that I don’t really care. All I’m thinking about now is a bagel and how I have to take off all my makeup and brush my teeth before I can go to bed. I swing home, sneak back in my window, and hang my suit up to dry. Goosebumps erupt over my bare skin before I yank on mismatched pajamas and flop into bed. Who cares; I can brush my teeth and wash my face in the morning. I sleep.
Sometime in the night I wake up. My hairnet’s come off by now. I drift off again, and in my dreams my suit is hot pink and the robber is riding a horse.

And imagine I am sad

My mind’s just spinning—wand’ring too—

Don’t worry, nothing bad.

I know you care with such might;

I appreciate it, I swear

Though you should know, I’m alright

My thoughts are simply elsewhere.

I love you most. My words are true.

Now there’s nothing more to say

Save that I’m thankful you view in blue

And not fifty shades of gray.

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Getting up to give him a pillow even though he told me not to bother, because I knew he was uncomfortable. Staying awake while she sleeps with her head in my lap because I want to make sure she sleeps well. Bracing my feet every time we hit a bump so that she wouldn’t be jostled awake.

Always complimenting.

Always asking “how can I help?”

Always loving in the ways that I wish they would love me.

I love and care so much that it hurts sometimes. The weight of it hurts, but what hurts more is how they don’t do the same. This is not to say they don’t love me. I know I am loved by many people and I’m eternally grateful.

I always say, “text me when you get home,” because I want to know they’re safe. Asking if they want ice with their water. Telling them they don’t need to pay me back. Straightening her hair in the back because she can’t reach. Asking if they’re having a good time, because I don’t want my friends to be sad.

I am not flashy or loud with my love, but I am obvious. It’s obvious in the way I listen, the way I take care to memorize every tiny detail, the way I take to heart what they tell me.

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I love in the small ways. Sometimes it goes unnoticed, but I know the risk. I love fiercely but quietly.

I don’t think they’ll ever know how much love I have for them.

Something is off– something is always off. Except the light of the topmost window in the Banner house. Nobody has lived there for seventy years.

I’m driving, and as soon as 9:13 PM hits, I can no longer hear my car’s engine. My air conditioning turns on aggressively but I wait exactly three seconds before switching it off. It’s always better that way.

I reach the far stop in the traffic triangle and brake, even though nobody else is driving– just as I obey the speed limits and keep my brights off even though this town has no police. My soft beams fall on something walking past the old nail salon. It is tall. Too tall. It is one of them.

I do not bother it; I do not turn off my headlights; I simply wait at the intersection until it climbs into a rusty truck. I don’t wait to see if it does anything else. Driving at exactly 30mph, I pull into the only church’s parking lot. I never look in my rearview mirror. Was my radio always on?

I sleep in the church.

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1 Oh, tell me, what’s it like to have such a

2 Broken moral compass? I suppose you

3 Sit and laugh with drunken glee as the red

4 Needle spins around and around, helpless.

5 I suppose when it starts to sputter and

6 Fail you close your eyes and flick it, sending

7 It spinning. You laugh more when you look down

8 And see you’ve stepped on it; the glass is shattered

9 But what does it matter? What does it weigh?

10 You never used it anyway, even when it was

11 Whole. Every time I brought it up, you just

12 Told me it was useless; told me you did

13 Not need it. You thought you could find your way

14 Without it. Without me. Alas, how false.

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“I love you,” Juliette says. The helicopter is so near that her beautiful brown hair is simply a cloud around her face.

“My darling, I’ve never loved anyone more.”

As always, the bullets fly. But this time, I do what I should’ve done every day before: I protect her. Juliette’s eyes widen in shock as I grip her shoulders, spin us, and twist us both down to the ground so that I am shielding her. I’m not a warrior. I’m not a soldier. I’m not even brave. I am simply a man in love– a man no longer willing to lose his world each and every day.

I keep my eyes locked on hers, trying to wordlessly reassure her before the bullets steal my soul from me.

It never happens.

When the pain doesn’t come and I’m not ripped to shreds, I turn, heart thundering. Time has frozen at last. The bullets hang in midair, the helicopter blades do not spin, the bubble of gum that inflates from the driver’s mouth doesn’t pop. I feel like we’re only standing in a horrible painting, but I don’t allow myself to feel safe.

“Xander…” a quiet, awed voice says behind me. I come rushing back to my senses and nearly break my neck whipping around to her. To Juliette, who is alive, who knows that I love her, and who is on the verge of tears.

I have never hugged anyone so tight nor kissed anyone so passionately as I do now. Through the mix of tears and hands and lips I realize, it was never truly about Juliette. It was about my cowardice, my selfishness, my hiding behind “punishment” to preserve my own life. I admit it to myself. I have been scared, foolish, falsely righteous. All this time, I needed to die.

I needed to realize that while she was certainly worth living in agony for, she was always worth dying for.

“Juliette,” I whisper, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“What do you mean?” she’s staring at me like I’m crazy and I can’t blame her.

“I wish I could explain right now, but we have to leave. Who knows when time will… unfreeze.” I take her hand and squeeze it. “Don’t worry. I know a place we can go.”

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Xander and I are running, the long grass whipping around our ankles. I inwardly wince at every sting, but it’s definitely worth it if we can be safe. I have a tracker imbedded in my side. As far as I know, it’s just a small chip, but I’m not sure. As long as I have it we’ll never be safe— but Xander knows this, I reassure myself. He’ll find a way to fix it.

Just like he found a way to stop time.

I’m still marveling at what happened. Curiosity is burning through me like poison, but it has to wait. We need to get to this “safe place” first.

. . .

Hours later, we’re checking into a hotel. Juliette looks surprised when I ask for a specific room; I give her a small, weary smile and lead her to the elevator. We haven’t talked much since the field. Even now, alone in the elevator, she simply leans back against my chest and watches my arms wrap around her. For a few minutes, the sound of us breathing in sync feels like the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. In my arms is a treasure, a priceless soul.

As we walk back to my old room, I think of how I will explain everything. It’ll be hard for her to understand. It’ll sound crazy. But my journal should be there, and it can prove my story true.

“I love you,” I tell her softly outside the door, taking in every detail of my darling, my sun.

She smiles and I swear the hall brightens under her glow. “I love you more.”

~Finis~

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thank you so much for reading! It means so much to me. I fell in love with these two sweet characters, and I hope you did too. Xander overcoming his un-admitted cowardice is a powerful lesson, and Juliette’s complete faith in him is a good example of how we should trust the Lord. I had the best time writing this story, and I hope I’ll find a way to bring the characters back again someday! Much love to all of you.

Xoxo,

Soph

Slightly, nothing major, nothing anyone else would notice. My hair is especially itchy and keeps swinging into my face. My lips are barely chapped— just enough to the point of constant discomfort.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t drank much water yet, but a headache pulses in the back of my head, so constant that it becomes a sick kind of friend. On these days, I’m always just a little too hot or a little too cold. My hands are dry. Not horribly, not painfully, but distractingly dry.

Certain sounds are unusually aggravating. My eyes are sore but I slept well. My socks are annoyingly crooked but I can’t straighten them to satisfaction. This one spot in my scalp won’t stop itching.

Too many people are talking to me but I don’t like silence and my clothes feel too heavy and I’m too hot but now I’m too cold and my hair is bothering me so much and I can’t focus on my homework and and and. It never ends.

Maybe I’m just autistic, but some days, everything is wrong.

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I don’t know a lot about autism, so forgive me if I’m misrepresenting (if that’s the right word). What I’m trying to express with this post is this itch in my brain that presents itself from time to time. It stays throughout the day, running in circles like it has nothing better to do than to make me question my normality. It feels weird to be so easily bothered— especially on a random basis. In a way, it makes me feel weak, the same way that I know I’m going to cry more during one week every month. Sometimes it makes me feel like I’m slowing others down; I can be so overwhelmed with a small task because my senses are running wild. I’m not claiming to be autistic but I have my suspicions.

Does anyone else hear that high-pitched noise?

Xoxo,

Soph