We’re drawing stars on the skylight of your room, with our innocent fingers and you told me I was going to be a writer someday.

You said I was going to be a writer, and I was going to spend my lifetime writing you. I scoffed. Don’t flatter yourself, I said.

You laughed. Oh but you will, you said. But I would do it secretly, sneaking in memories like they were truths. But people hate truth. Exactly, you said mischievously.

For the rest of my life, you said, I am going to rely on you for that. My life would be so chaotic and disheveled because you know I am going to get notoriously famous that I can’t take it. As my life spins out of control, I’ll turn to your written words and find my way home…