He sits next to me, his strong arms encircling my waist as I type away.  I scowl at his light chuckle when I huff and delete the paragraph I'd written.  I spend my life writing and reading and watching my English grade slip away because I'm too engrossed in the story I'm writing to write my essay, or the book I'm reading to read that novel.  While my fingers type away about a child's traumatic past, I peer forward, anxiously awaiting my future.