Proza

"Don't do it," she whispers. "This has to stop. Now. This has gone on too long."

I don't listen to this girl, this sensible girl in the glass. She doesn't know how it feels. She lives in the past place, in denial, where she is encased in her false happiness. She doesn't know the truth, because she is Past, and Past is no good at predicting the future.  If she had predicted this, then we wouldn't be divided.

She would be the same way.