This summer, I didn't say the words I meant to. I didn't pick up th phone and call my closests friends, and I definitly didn't ask them to run away with me in search of adventure, something I long for more than anything. I didn't even get out of bed.

I didn't write novels about old men and their dying thoughts, or the innocence of a new born, or the development of life somewhere just far enough for us not to notice. I didn't pick up a pen, not once, except to sign for a package I didn't even order.

I didn't hold hands and walk down the beach with someone I thought I could maybe be with for the rest of my life. I didn't trade kisses, the bonfire flickering, alluminating the night, and I didn't steal hugs and sweaters. I didn't love.

I didn't once think about what the future holds, where I'll go, with who, and if I'll be happy. I didn't imagine the fond look in their eyes as I make mistakes and keep making them. I didn't picture midnight dances and morning cuddles and butterfly kisses and I one hundred percent didn't wish I had someone to hold me as the tears fell from my face. Although now that I think about it, maybe I did.