When the path clears of obstacles, I look up, and she’s different now.
Taller. Dressed in plainer clothes. Her hair is loose save for a headband No more pigtails or braids. Smiling doesn’t seem to come so easily to
her anymore. Her eyes are the same shade of deep brown as before,
but the sparkle in them is gone. They’re only dull and dark now. “Then why do you do it?” She walks with a permanent hunch in her shoulders and her hands hiding in her pockets. “Has Dad given you that book about the ten thousand hours rule?” “Yeah, is it true?”
“I don’t know, but I’m already eight thousand hours into writing. Can’t stop now.”
“I get that.” She keeps glancing back at me and we fall into step beside each other. I recognize her. We are much more the same than the joyful girl
she came to me as. There’s still ten years left between us rather than fifteen. Those five years left quite a few scars.
“Do you still like books?” I ask. I look at the path ahead. Not at her. I
know she’s more comfortable that way. “I love them. All I do is read.. I failed a math
test by rushing through it just so I could finish the book under my desk.” I can hear her smile.
I laugh. “Right! I remember that! It was so worth it.” I try to stay upbeat.
I know she needs that from me. Already we’re trading places. Maybe one day I’ll be like she was again.
“What obsesses you?” Right. This was the era of being eaten alive by stories. Consuming them
like a starving creature before I was taken over by muses I seem to have already lost.
