I’m always a mess. I can never keep my own secrets. I laugh too hard at stupid things. My favorite songs can make me cry. I always watch for 11:11, but I miss it more than I notice it. I live in the past, in the memories I have with the people I love. I hate thinking about reality and I’m so homesick that it’s not even funny. But not homesick in a missing my house kind of way. Maybe it’s more like heartsick for all the things that I can’t get back. It’s hard for me to define myself. I guess I’m just a cliché, the girl who loved too hard and didn’t get anything in return. I don’t want to be the heroine in some tragic love story. I just want the one person who has never given me a second thought.