I remember you once told me I couldn’t take anything serious. At the time I denied it, but now I see how immature I was. You were hurting and I couldn’t see it because I was too busy admiring the image of myself. If I could, I would go back and shatter the glass showing my reflection. Then I would look at you, and see you. Not just the way you did your hair, or the outfit you were wearing, but really see you. In those golden eyes, your intelligence, fears, and hopes.
