The ceiling fan above me rotates, spinning, and I follow the blades with my eyes, feeling the breeze it throws off kiss my desert dry cheeks. I am a dried up river, the earth cracked and desperate for water. I never found out where my mother took me, what part of the world we were riding horses in. Afterwards, I Googled the peak she mentioned, but I couldn’t get the spelling right, and I kept getting weird responses. The majority of the sites tried selling me soft fiber sheets. Others promised me the time of my life under the sheets. I wonder what Matthew is doing right now, and then berate myself for my curiosity. Covering my face with my hands, I scream into them. I never want to see another romantic movie or read another romantic book in my life because crushing on someone is the most terrible feeling in the world. It isn’t like the images the media shoves down society’s throat. No giddiness or girly giggles. Just me climbing my bedroom walls wishing for something I don’t quite know how to label.
