She was terrible beautiful awful lovely broken. She smiled when they watched her and fell to pieces when their eyes moved on. She laughed up to their faces and cried in their shadows. She hid herself behind a wall of sarcasm and dark humour and immaturity, didn't let anyone see her wounds and her scars. When she was sad, she played it off as moodiness; she was brilliant in that way. I wished I could be her, for her strength and her resolve and her intelligence and beauty and talent. She was better than me in every way, even when she refused to admit it or even see it. I hated her, hated her, hated her - and I couldn't do without her.
