I looked over at my friend, Sarah, writing in her diary. A few weeks ago, I'd gone through it. I knew I wasn't supposed to. I wish I hadn't. The poor girl.
"Why do you pretend you're okay when you're not?" I asked her, whispering.
She didn't look up from her diary, but paused to think about it. Her eyes met mine, tears in her eyes as she said,
"What else am I supposed to do?"
