Of words unspoken...

I want that love. A love where he gets jealous after ten, twenty, thirty years of marriage, a love that still makes his eyes sparkle whenever he sees you after a long and strenuous day, a love born out of love.

But I am still seventeen years old, not a kid anymore but still cannot be considered a woman. I am the in between. People say I am supposed to find myself at this point in my life, but how am I supposed to do that with adults pretending they already found out who they really are and no clue whatsoever about what I am supposed to look for or how I am supposed to find it.

With only eight months to go before my eighteenth birthday, I am nowhere near finding out what I want to do with my life. I feel lost in an area of nothingness with no one to save me from my self-inflicted misery. See? This is what I tell my friends whenever they ask me if I ever get lonely living in my apartment with only my thoughts as company. We do everything alone. We are born alone, we suffer alone, we die alone. Everything that is done is done alone which, when you think about it, is something repeated by every depressed teenager in this world.

All I want is to find that someone who can delude me into thinking that I am not alone. Someone who tries his hardest to relieve me of my pain whenever I get those abominable cramps, someone who holds me tight whenever I get a high fever, someone who still kisses me when I catch a cold albeit my futile protestations. Someone, anyone, who can make me feel special when I actually am just, well, a weird and awkward me.