No really, I'm okay. I'm also a great liar.

the tearful reunion with glitter dancing on the skin

I find myself writing more and more.

I might say it's a kind of coping mechanism, as I'm writing more and more about romance; more and more about pretty girls; more and more about brown eyes and soft hair.

I plan in my head what it'll be like picking her back up from the airport.

I go through several scenarios, some involving speakers and some involving me literally sweeping her off her feet.

And I talk. I talk to her, I talk about her. I have so many feelings that they're welling up inside me and I need more words.

I talk and I write, I talk and I write. I while away the five months through one-sided conversations and nostalgic similies.

I walk through the streets at night, earbuds blasting Hometown, and I sit underneath willow trees.

I wear Annabelle's clothes, which are smelling less and less like her the more I wear them. When she's back, we'll have to switch again.

I never truly understood the lure of one-person dance parties. But truly, last night when Death of A Bachelor came on, I just had to get up and move around a little. I picked up the nearest hairbrush and just jumped around. I couldn't bounce on my bed, the ceiling is too low. Even someone as short as me would hit their head on the sloped ceiling.

It's nice, to just have yourself and Brendon Urie in the room. If you close your eyes, it almost feels like he's in there with you.

Just another, just another oh oh

Just another, just another oh oh

Just another, just another oh oh

Just another LA Devotee

My parents are used to hearing me singing loudly, so this is no surprise to them.

I sing, and I talk, and I write. Words, words, words. All I've ever needed.

I find myself reaching for copious amounts of sparkles to apply to my poster board. (You'd think there wouldn't be much poster board lying around, with its lack of use in college projects, but I found an entire stack of it in the basement.)

I've decided to just make her a sort of welcome-back sign for when she finally flies back in.

And by the time I'm done, my hands look like I've just murdered a glitterbug. Not all of it washes off, and some seems permanently stuck to my face.

Oh well. There are worse things to have permanently stuck to your face.

Five months melted into five hours before I can even comprehend anything going on.

I wake up on the first day of December and do two things. First, say a mental happy birthday to Tyler Joseph. And then I squeal and bounce up and down in my bed excitedly, because Annabelle's flight is coming in today.

I haven't seen her, cuddled her, kissed her, heard her voice in five months.

Has she changed? Gotten even taller? Gotten an accent? (Gee, I really hope so. Annabelle would sound amazing with a British accent.)

I'm unable to keep still. I eat my cereal with my leg bouncing uncontrollably. I pack my backpack with my head bopping to my music. And then repack it, and check to make sure everything's there. I'm driving my dad's car to the airport, meaning I get full control over the stereo.

And you know what that means.

Playing mine and Annabelle's CD on repeat with the windows down and the volume louder than it needs to be.

Sounds like a good time to me.

It'll be an even better time on the ride back to Annabelle's house, because she'll be with me. I want to hold her hand so badly. The only times mine hasn't felt empty were when they held a pen.

And really, a writing utensil is no match for my gorgeous girlfriend.

I'm waiting in the baggage claim, holding up my messy, glittery sign, endearingly emblazoned with a large NERD and jumping up on my tiptoes.

It's really hard to see over all these heads. If only I were taller.

I see a plane landing out of the window, and the status on Flight 687 from London changes to Landing.

My heart starts thumping so loudly I'm surprised the man beside me, holding a much more dignified sign and standing patiently, doesn't hear it and look at me reproachfully for making such a racket.

I fiddle with my backpack straps. I play with loose strands of my hair. I twist my fingers. I curl the hem on my (Annabelle's) sweater. I check multiple times that my sign is facing right side up.

Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle.

Where is she?

Another door opens and a hoard of people spill out, wearing all sorts of bright colors and all carrying bulky, overpacked duffel bags. Many are yawning, some stretching, but none are Annabelle.

Annabelle.

I daresay I've gone maybe a little bit crazy with her absence, without her presence to ground and calm me.

Annabelle.

And there she is.

Wearing one of my sweatshirts that's much too big on me and flops over my wrists but fits her perfectly.

In her skinny jeans and high tops.

With that smile, with that hair, with those eyes.

Those eyes, which lock onto mine.

I've never really thought much of tunnel vision, but here we are, and she's the only thing worth seeing in my mind.

She looks at the sign, and I see her shake her head at me.

My cheeks hurt from smiling too much, and suddenly there's a magnetic force pulling us together and who am I to resist?

She doesn't pick me up and spin me around, or anything. She just leans down and hugs me so tightly against her that I can't breathe, but I'll gladly take the burning in my lungs if it means she won't let me go.

"Hazel," she murmurs into my hair. She did get an accent. "You're a fucking nerd too, you know that?"

I laugh, and her grip loosens to accommodate the expanding of my chest.

I really was homesick, despite never leaving my hometown.

a/n: i decided to make that semester go by extremely quickly, as you may have noticed; just thought it wouldn't be as interesting

sorry this is so late to those two people who care *apologetic smile* y'all are great