My life is not romantic. When I wake up I do not slave over my appearance, but slip into clothes that I can move in. When I don't feel like sleeping away the hours, my mother makes me. My parents are in love, but never kiss. I walk the dogs, read, and sing badly in the shower. My friends don’t party and I’m too scared to try drugs. I’ve never been kissed but have fallen in love on my own. On days like today when I am sad and I wish to be alone and poetic in my dark room, I have to pull myself out and go to a middle school basketball game to be the fun, supporting, older sister that I don’t think I am. I just sit there and read my book while I can feel my mother’s chest vibrate next to me as she chitchats with other parents, playing out their roles of dedicated guardians. I focus on the words on the page and how they make me feel, wanting so badly to be taken to an unfamiliar place where I’m aloud to be philosophical and think about things I’m not supposed to, like death or sex or driving over the speed limit. I want to feel the adventures the letters in the book are a part of. I want to experience the tragedy that brings the two main characters together. But I can’t because this is real life. Yet as the buzzer shatters the imaginary world of my reading, I can think of nothing that would make me more sad in this instant that sitting here on a steel bleacher in a humid gym watching a basketball game and reading about people i love who doesn’t exist. Truth is, if my life was a book I wouldn’t go near it. I would travel to the other side of the world and fill my days with things that distract me from reality. I want those words to come true, I want those lives to be real- all of them except mine.