There's nothing anyone can say on days like this, when one's life is a bright, blinding light and the other, you, has spent the last few days reflecting on the last several years. Time goes by so quickly and, suddenly, here you are, an adult, the years marked with thick, black ink, or pages folded down. I never wished so hard to be more pensive, less happy, than I did today, to think of you, FOR you. I never stopped dancing, even when I should have been weeping, because I knew the thing I should not know. I never made you hold my hand, lean on my shoulder, cry in my bed. We never sat next to one another, burning holes with our gazes, and just talked. What was there to talk about? When was there ever time enough for talking? I bobbed my head to the music that I don't normally like. I painted my nails a particular shade of green-black-gold. I went out and I danced, and I screamed, and everything blurred except you. You remained, peripheral, standing like a shadow, like the dead. I can feel this pain like it's my own, and there is still nothing that anyone can say to anyone else on a day like this.