Pallid

Celeste was seventeen.

Seventeen little years old, acted like she was twenty one, felt like she was invincible.

And she was.

For a little while, anyway.

Everyone loved her.

Everyone, including me.

And she didn't love anyone.

Anyone, including me.

She made me feel old sometimes, even though I wasn't that much older than her, not really. Only by a couple of years. Two? Three? I don't know why. She just did.

But she was seventeen, seventeen, ten plus seven, seventeen, nineteen minus two, seventeen, twenty one minus four, seventeen.

At least, that's what her birth certificate says.

She only looks her age when she's asleep, eyelashes long and soft and her nose thin and pointed and her cheeks soft and pink and sweet and the little murmurs and sighs and simple sweet smiles.

I wish she looked like that all the time.