I am a cryer. A mess. A black and sad mess. I am that girl that would rarely have friends. Go to parties. Have fun. My friends might call me a crow. That's why I got a tattoo of a black raven crow with its black wings unfolded across my collarbones . I can see it staring back at me from my mirror, everyday as I get ready to leave for my job. A job that doesn't make things any better. I remember when I left my house two years ago. I kinda run away. I was never happy in my house. I am not happy here either. But, my mom was pulling me with her. Making it even worse. My mother who is a 40 years old woman. A widow whose husband died with cancer six years ago. I was entering high school then. My father was like the candle to our house. I was that happy person whenever he's around. But, after he left, I became this lifeless creature. I had no friends in high school. No boyfriends. I was quit most of time. I barely talked or ate anything. My mother who became depressed as my father left us. I remember how I used to watch my parents on Christmas nights, dancing together. They were the most real love story I ever seen come to life. I am a reader. I read. All sort of stuff. Articles, books, novels, essays. All kind of things that can be read. I always used to steal the newspaper from my father as a kid. I loved my life as a beautiful happy bird. But, fate always wanted me to be a crow. A sad black and annoying crow.

I don't like waking up early. I feel like it's not important to actually get up early. What's the point? I mean my father didn't have that chance to get up. He died in his sleep. A sleep that was after one of his long chemotherapies. I really hated those. He would say that he didn't feel a thing but, I knew. My father was in pain and I couldn't do a thing about it. I get out of bed. I walk to my little bathroom in my little apartment that has a good view of the ocean. I take a shower and walk back to my room. I grab a white shirt. I pull it on and then tuck it into my pants. I put my feet into my uncomfortable black heels. I style my black wavy hair into a low bun. I grab my hand bag and walk to my door. I grab my black coat on my way out of the apartment. As I close my apartment door, struggling to put on my coat at the same time, I hear a male voice. A new voice. A voice that I didn't hear before today. A voice that doesn't belong to this building. I turn and there is a man in a light blue shirt and black pants, also struggling to put on his black coat. He is talking to my neighbor. Miss Johns. She is a 64 years old woman. She is living alone. She likes cats. She has a cat named parker. She is a divorced woman whose husband left for a younger woman. She is fixing the guy's collar. "Oh, Good morning, Coraline." She says with a smile. I return the smile. I don't usually smile. I hate smiling. It hurts my cheekbones. The guy looks at me. His hair is brown medium length hair. His face has a strong and visible jawline. He has the starts of a beard on the trims of his chin and face. He has a tanned skin. His eyes are green. The hazel green. Like the green of the leaves and the hazel or burned brown of the trees. All mixed together. He is tall. I like looking at people. Just examining them. We don't have to talk. I just try to recall who they would look like from the book I am currently reading. I give them both a nod before I hit the elevator's button to summon it upstairs. "Well, do you mind if I come down with you?" He asks me gently. His voice is cheerful and calming. Sweet and strong. I nod at him without a word. I am not a chatter. I was never the chatty type. I hate chatty people. I think they are wasting time and energy on speaking instead of just examining the place around them. We walk into the elevator together as it opens. Silence. My favorite thing. I adore silence. If silence was a person, I did marry him. With no doubt. I can feel him looking at me. A good smell of men's perfume fill up the elevator. Females perfumes aren't as strong as men's. Which makes my perfume less obvious. As the door opens, I walk right out. I know that he's going to say something, like nice to meet you. Or maybe tell me his name. Ask me for dinner. I don't really wanna have this kind of conversation at the moment or at any other moment. I walk into the cold streets of Miami. I chose Miami because it's my father's favorite place. He always told me stories about it. But, now I don't really think these stories are quite real. I walk right to the metro station. I buy the last ticket to where I am going. I hop into the metro as it closes and starts moving.

I walk into bookstore I am working at. A girl with a Harvard degree is working at a bookstore. Funny, right? But, I am just being where I like to be. I can't be a doctor. I hate hospitals. I don't wanna be where my father experienced all of the pain in his life. My father had Leukemia. Blood Cancer. He suffered for years. I hate hospitals just because of it. But, I love books. I adore them. I think they are my only escape from reality. They are my own private space. I walk to the owner's office to declare I am here. I get out of the office. I go into the stuff's room. I hang my coat and put my bag there. I walk outside, willing to help people find the book that would get them out of their real life.