Hey fox.
I know you won’t let me tell you this in person. Every time I try to, you slam the door in my face, or just sit there on your bed with your eyes looking out the window. And I know you won’t read this unless it sounds like a story. Fox, I wish it was.
I remember when we were small, and you were tiny. Well, I was too, but being the older brother, I like to think that I was tall since birth. Everything was so simple and so easy and you were so freaking annoying and I hated you when you were four because you had finally gotten the meaning of what a song was and you wouldn’t shut up. But now you’re almost fifteen, and you’re still my little sister.
But really? Are you? You are way too old for your years. Your wrists have stolen the crinkles from your eyes. What happened to those neon shoes and yellow shirts? What happened?
I think I know. I think I do, and I hate you and I hate me for it. But what are you supposed to do? It’s not fair to you, fox. If life isn’t fair, then I don’t want to live it. Because this type of unfair is beyond “unfair”; it’s torture. Fox, your paws got caught in a snare, and you’ve shrunk to get back out. But you keep saying that you don’t want to.
I’m right next door. Lily is two doors down, and she sees you more than I do. That’s great. But I know you don’t trust her enough. She’s the shoulder to cry on, but not the ear to listen. I’m sorry.
You can stop growing now; I feel like you’ve outgrown me.
Talk sometime?
keven
