'so, let me see', Ettie says, reaching out

'it's not that good. i didn't write that much', I reply, twisting my mouth

Ettie clicks her tongue, clenching her hand. 'gimme, gimme' 

I pull out two scrunched balls of paper out of my pocket. The school bell has already rung, so we're standing in a deserted, quiet hall, lined with blue lockers. 

Ettie unrolls the two lists, written on post-it notes - one blue, one red. 

There's not much written on there. She reads it and then looked at me with her thin, sharp brows furrowed. The 'are you serious' expression. 

I shrug and adjust my backpack that is cutting off the circulation in my arm. 

The List of the Good Stuff                                     The List of the Bad Stuff

- pretty  like a painting                                                 - ripped up my poem x2

-he's got a nice sense of style??                                 - doesn't care about me

 -has a smile the gods could worship                      - looks at me like I'm a bug                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

'why the fuck are you still having problems over this?' Ettie asks, narrowing her eyes. 'you literally answered your dilemma here.'

'no, i didn't.'

'well, the good list has just the superficial shit on it, whilst the bad list is not. andie, come on.'

I cross my arms, clenching my jaw. Writing those things out didn't mean anything. Did it?

'you have to stop this shit,' she says, her eyes hardening, unyielding. I don't like when she looks at me like that. It means she's serious and she's never serious. 'you have no idea who he is, and it's not like you actually want to get to know him, either. you just like the image of him you've created in your mind. and now you're being pissy about it because that image is incompatible with who he actually is. andie, calm the fuck on.'

Crack. 

(the glass cup that was being constantly filled with water has now overflowed)

(a door handle falls off the ancient door from the overuse, from the constant twisting and turning)

There, in the surface of my mirror, Ettie's words make a small crack, a silver spiderweb that's bound to spread.

I yank the post it notes out of her hands. She looks at me like a disappointed mother, so unlike her.

'whatever. i don't really care.'

I push the papers into my pockets, lower my gaze and walk away.