Meant to Be
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You don't really need to know who I am. You just need to know who I wish I was, and her name is Mirabelle Stewart. Beautiful, thick, long black hair, green eyes, olive skin, long legs, high cheekbones, and perfect lips. The kind of lips that look like they have lipstick on them when they don't. Everything is perfect about Mirabelle Stewart. She writes novels about kids like me. Not really, but kids my age, who deal with issues that other authors are afraid to talk about, you know? She has no fear. She's a brilliant mind who doesn't care what anyone thinks about her. She's my hero.
I'm not just another fan of her novels. Stephen King once said, to explain what writing is, that it was all telepathy. And it made perfect sense to me. Only there was a stronger connection when I read Mirabelle's books. Not only telepathy, but as if, for those few hours, we were one person. We could feel each other, like we were meant to be.
My mom says to stop calling that "damn author by her first name" like I "fucking know her". But what she doesn't understand is that I do know Mirabelle. On a higher level than physical encounter. She doesn't know that. You'd think she would get it, because naturally, mothers have spiritual connections with their children because of them being one entity for nine months before they were brought into the world. But my mother doesn't feel that. She says I'm good for one thing: groceries and an extra hand when she needs to get off. I hate her. She's not my mother. Mirabelle Stewart is my real mother. God just got it mixed up, which is why he gave her the gift of writing, so she could speak to me somehow, and I would know.
This is why I'm going to New York to find her. It's not far, just two states away. Even if it were farther, I wouldn't care, this is simply meant to be.
I'm not just another fan of her novels. Stephen King once said, to explain what writing is, that it was all telepathy. And it made perfect sense to me. Only there was a stronger connection when I read Mirabelle's books. Not only telepathy, but as if, for those few hours, we were one person. We could feel each other, like we were meant to be.
My mom says to stop calling that "damn author by her first name" like I "fucking know her". But what she doesn't understand is that I do know Mirabelle. On a higher level than physical encounter. She doesn't know that. You'd think she would get it, because naturally, mothers have spiritual connections with their children because of them being one entity for nine months before they were brought into the world. But my mother doesn't feel that. She says I'm good for one thing: groceries and an extra hand when she needs to get off. I hate her. She's not my mother. Mirabelle Stewart is my real mother. God just got it mixed up, which is why he gave her the gift of writing, so she could speak to me somehow, and I would know.
This is why I'm going to New York to find her. It's not far, just two states away. Even if it were farther, I wouldn't care, this is simply meant to be.