,

It’s a funny thing. Looking at your own reflection,
only to realize you don’t recognize it.

Only to realize you don’t know the girl staring back at you.

I glide through the stacks of West Ridge Library. It started local, but it’s now the second largest library in the state. Three floors and my favorite happens to be the second. I make my way to my haven; the young adult section of the library where there are five long, metal shelves of teen rated fiction. There is a circle of purple, comfy chairs and four tall tables with barstools, two chairs to a table. The window stretches across the wall, revealing the snow-lit traffic below. I stand face to the heater, staring emptily at my reflection. My skin, as pale as a ghost, but I never understood that simile, anyway. My hair hangs to my chest, dark spiral curls in perfect locks. Curly hair. Super curly hair. A few freckles. Good eyebrows. Deep blue eyes. Awkward nose. I’m not awful.
I stay in this position for about three minutes, until I notice some kids on the purple chairs. Three of them, a girl and two boys. They’re dressed in some kind of school uniform, and they appear to be doing homework, but the girl is stretched across the taller boy’s lap and they’re giggling about something pretty hilarious. The other boy looks over at me.

What’s with the khaki?

I start scanning the books, but by now I can almost recite the first couple rows. I’ve read stacks of stories here, and each time I find a character I wish I was more like. I spend a lot of time here, and I like to read.

Either that or I’m just genuinely amazed by the new coffee machine on the first floor.
I make my way to school. It’s seven fifteen am, and I can see my breath in the air. The sun peeks from the south, just to get some rays through.

Just to light up the sky.

It paints the atmosphere a dark blue and leaves the south with a pinkish glow. The snow on the ground, small crystals packed tight. It looks so soft. It looks so gentle. Untouched by human hands, the snow lay there collected, showing me the only sign of simplicity I’d see all day. I walk through the doors of Westview Junior High School, the same doors that have haunted me for almost a year and a half. I gave my first push on this door last year when I left elementary behind and became a seventh grader, but things were much different then. It’s amazing how much someone can change over a year. The bell rings just as the heavy door slams behind me. The halls flood with empty heads, which will most likely be empty when the bell signals dismissal. I take a step back and freeze in my tracks. They all pass my by. I wa




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