Pages.

Books were my medical drug, necessary but bad in large doses. I realized this within the next week, where I tried to see what my life would be like if I hadn’t started to become a book-obsessed-crazy-girl. And I only realized one thing:

Life was harder than it was in books.

You couldn’t read a look with just one stare, and you didn’t make friends with a simple smile. You actually had to participate, and if you didn’t respond to a person who talked to you, you were automatically dubbed ‘Bitch’.

That was me: Bitch. I try to contribute for one day, and the next I am Bitch.

And that was when I stopped. I stopped trying to be something I’m not. Mark had made a point: I didn’t have a life. But I was happy enough with my non-social life.

I liked sitting in my special chair with my legs up, and so caught up in a book I didn’t have the urge to eat unless completely needed. I liked feeling the rough paper beneath the pads of my fingers and I liked the ink that rubbed off on the fingers I used to turn the pages.

I tried to compromise with myself and I came to one solution: read when I wasn’t with people, and try to hang out more with my friend’s at school.

I sat next to Mark that day, and I shot him a smile, catching him off guard.

“Hey, Mel, how’s it going?”

I shrugged, and then realized that usually this was when people responded back. “It’s going.”

“Sorry—about the other day,” he whispered.

I looked at him in the eyes and smiled right when the other people that I considered friends sat down.

“Really, don’t even worry about it.”

I realized I couldn’t live my life figuring out others’. I needed to get my own, and Mark helped me see that.

My life was my own book, and this time I hadn’t had a clue as to what was going to happen at the end.