I'm in the shower and I'm biting at my knuckles. My feet are bruised from kicking myself and I can hardly catch my breath because my brain is telling me that I'm losing you. I know I'm overthinking and my mind has a funny way of convincing me of things that don't exist, but I've also always been blindly optimistic and I've always ended up disappointed.

When I was six, I saw the receipt for a book that Santa brought me. I convinced myself that maybe Santa shopped at Borders, too. But then I saw mom and dad putting the presents under the tree.

When I was eight, my dead hamster started twitching. Maybe Fluffy is waking up from her nap, I thought. But she didn't even open her eyes when I brought her her favorite treats.  

When I was twelve, I saw dark red scratches and scars on my best friend's arm. Her new kitten must be vicious, I thought. But then I saw her in the school bathroom, with new cuts, cuts that weren't there at recess.

When I was sixteen, I fell in love. My mother has always told me that perfection is unattainable. But your eyes, the way you kiss my forehead, and the way I feel so comfortable and myself with you convinces me otherwise.

But maybe I'm setting myself up again. Maybe love doesn't exist and it's something the universe made up so it could laugh at stupid naive people like me. Maybe I will end up disappointed just like all the other times, maybe I've concocted another false reality.