When it broke.

When it broke.

The music was louder than normal. The lights bright, pink, and piercing through the light fog of the dance room. I was laughing like a lion and dancing how you imagine I would. It was midnight, and 30 seconds into the song before I realized what was playing. Our song.

I felt as if I was searching for something I knew I wouldn’t find throughout the night—as if you’d teleport to this bar 3,000 miles away—but now that you’ve filled my ears I regret finding you.

It was a mistake to snapchat you the scene of the dance floor even though we admitted that we wanted to talk again like nothing is different. We were more ourselves with each other than we are with anyone, but now, everything has changed.

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Who’s in Your Head?

Who’s in Your Head?

Tucked far in the depths of my hard drive was this piece I wrote in college. I was inspired to write something Salinger-y after reading The Catcher in the Rye and took a stab at it here. This was my first piece of fiction and one that hooked me on writing, though I’ve edited a little now, 10 years later. Enjoy.

I made no attempt to explain myself as I meandered through the hall avoiding my mother this morning. It’s not as if I was going to get in trouble taking the 26 steps toward my car, a 21-minute drive, and another 317 steps out of the car, into the cold, out of the cold, and into coffeeshop. It’s not as if my mother would stop me either, but explaining the explicit details of my hours aren’t how I plan to spend them.

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