She'd have preferred the electric chair. The clinic's lobby was a stale tan color. It was April, and there was a Christmas movie on TV for Christ's sake.

Her name was called, and she went to sign the form, pay the co-pay, and was assured by the lady at the desk that this was indeed, confidential. She was asked if the man next to her was the father, or her boyfriend, or something. She lied and said no. He looked upset but ultimately should have been glad that she said no, he'd probably end up getting arrested for rape, anyway....

My eyes were tired; I rolled over in my bed, and stared briefly at the moon.

I turned back to face my fan; the 90-degree summer heat only dropped to 78 overnight, enough to make me sleep in shorts and a tank top.

My phone buzzed and lit-up its orangy color. Message from: Alex. I clicked to read the message, and it was some drunken rambling. "Oh boy," I thought, "what now?"

Our messages would go back and forth with when we would meet again, to what each other did that day or night. That was the summer I owed...

The wind hit my face just right. My cheeks instantly turned red and i put my head down into my mitten-covered hands to sheild the cold.

We stood in the driveway as the snow swirled around the neighborhood, you placed your hand on my shoulder and led me to your warm car.

The heat was steaming the windows; we removed our gloves and hats. Dashboard Confessional was playing on the college radio station, and I sang along in my head.

We talked for atleast and hour, in between what we knew were goodbye kisses, but not saying goodbye at all...

Light. It was painful to look at; my hangover was tremendous. My hair was matted to the side of my face, and my pillowcase had collected all of the eyeliner I had on from the night before.

It was December 4th. I was 18. I had no idea how I got back into my bed from the previous night. I had lost my keys. I was spitting out blood. I was supposed to go to Toronto on a shopping trip that day.

I went. I felt dead. I caught pneumonia from being outside in December with hardly any clothes on....

That letter I almost-wrote? I almost told you today through a text. It wouldn't have come out the same. The "Hey I almost wrote you a letter saying..." text... I can't imagine the response I would have gotten.

Instead you told me to runaway. Runaway to see you. To LIVE with you. To leave my life behind that I'm apparently messing up and too young to be living. Live with you in a state I've never visited to an apartment I've never even seen in pictures. To an address I've never sent a letter to...

What to do, what to...

The pistol was cocked, ready to go. Tears falling and falling down Alyssa's face. She had a picture of them together on her lap. She had always felt like running away, this time she was gonna do it. She never felt like the perfect girl, especially not for Tommy. She felt too young to be with him, too old to be told what to do. The bed was made, and she was leaving a crinkle on the comforter where she was sitting. She was praying that she was alone; and that he could just find her later after his 'staff...

Ridiculous. I've tried to write to you probably 30 times since you moved away. I have unfinished letters, words stuck in my head, of a million different ways to say the same thing.

In April I wrote a letter to you in my head on the car ride home from the mountains. Then I went home and typed it up; deleted it, then pulled it out of the 'recycle bin' on my desktop.

Now it's January, the only thing I ever sent was an 'I Miss You' card with a dog on it that looked incredibly sad and I have...

She bent down to tie her shoe as the sun was setting. The reflection of the pinkish-yellow ball was right in front of her at the edge of the lake. The pebbles beneath her feet were wet and smooth. The umbrella she brought with her, still resting on her beach towel by the tree.

With many thoughts in her head, Chelsea folded up her umbrella and tucked it beneath her arm, rolling up her damp towel and stuffing her towel into her drawstring bag.

Today was a good day, she thought. She could get through this day. Days at the...

If you really knew me, you'd find I hate cinnamon; the smell, the taste, everything about it. I've never tried a brussel sprout and I would say my favorite food are hot dogs, even though they aren't so good for you. If this were a book about my life, I could tell you I've lived in NY my whole life, and just recently I want to move; the winter used to be one of my favorite seasons, and now it's just too cold to bear. If we just met and you asked my favorite color, I would tell you pink...

Portraits. Hanging in the gallery; all her own work. Self-portraits, and ones of famous people, she had finally found her passion.

Buyers, on-lookers, and art collectors alike all came to marvel at the paintings. The gallery was on Main Street in the City. Nashville had always been her home, and her dream to have her portraits on display for the Country Music Capital dwellers.

Her favorite portrait was one she had painted of her and her brother Damien. This one in particular, Leila was sitting on Damien's lap, looking up at him while their cat, Josephine was sitting at her...