Feeling: stubborn
Listening to: Vertical Horizon - Heart in Hand
Reading/Watching: Clare Darcy - "Georgina"

I know her.

I know how her laugh sounds when she's faking it, I know how she squeals and talks too fast when she's hyper or defensive. I know how her mouth sets when she's irritated, I know that when her arms cross, it is the point of no return and she is formally Pissed. I know how she cultivated a head toss on accident to get overlong bangs out of her face, I know she'll not walk out the front door without asking me four or five times if I'm sure the outfit looks cute, I know she thinks she has only one asset and has the kind of radiant confidence that draws people in like fish to bait, but if they bite just wrong, she will pulverize them and leave convincing herself that she has been greatly wronged.

I know that she is still young, much as she argues about being older than her nineteen years, I know that in her eyes the world is meant to adore her, and anyone who doesn't clearly has a severe emotional problem. I know that there are no greater injustices than hers, her stories always must be told first, and often when she's meeting someone she will give socialite-eyes and be waiting for her turn to speak.

I know that she feels like a freak for what happened to her, I know she looks at every single girl on earth with envy when they wear open-toed sandals. I know that when she cries, she squeaks. I know that she still has nightmares about fire and hospitals and endless surgeries. I know that she can read my mood no matter how well I hide it from anyone else. I know that we quarrel at least every few days, but end up laughing or crying, and the next day we are back to saying things at the same time, and assuming that if we both have free time, we will spend it together. I know that she still looks for traits of her sister in everyone she meets, and has pictures of her everywhere. I know that her last apartment was haunted, and I know that she can't cook to save her life.

I know that she hates brutal truth, but needs it, and will forgive it if you stick around long enough to prove that it was well meant. I know what songs she plays on the stereo when she's happy, angry, thinking of a specific boy, or trying to pretend she doesn't care about something. I know her horses', dogs', cats', and parents' names. I know that she is impossibly loyal, and expects the same from everyone she knows. I know that she will expect people to know what she wants without having to ask, and becomes angry when they seem to miss that fact.

I know that it takes one strike for a person to be out of her confidence forever. One. Imagined or otherwise.

I know that once she has set a negative opinion of someone, it. will. never. change. Everything they do, think, say, from that moment on, is put into a negative light.

I know that there is no way to mend this with her. I have such an affinity for fixing things, but unless she meets me halfway (which is entirely foreign to her nature), this will not happen. I know that she no longer trusts me. I know that she will speak to me with an arctic chill in her voice and treat me like a next-door-neighbor she cordially despises, until I call and apologize for betraying her, until I beg and cry and take back everything, until I debase myself and tie myself in knots for the name of this friendship that apparently only I hold precious.

I know I cannot fix this. Because I will not do that. Not even for her.

Stop asking me how I am doing. There is no other way to allow myself to be but fine. I am fine. And if I am not fine, I will lie to you until I become so.

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