Suzy sat alone, once again, with company only from anger, boredom, and hurt. The small, preoccupied girl doodled in a notebook, thoughts running rampid. She started writing another hundered words, all different from each other, though similar because of their cryptic meaning. Carefully arranged, they portrayed an abridged story, shortened truths disguised by characterization. Her mind was never at ease - always processing, trying to determine possible actions, outcomes, scenarios, translate what things meant, before losing that one person who made everything worth it. Stories helped distract, consume time. They'd make problems seem less bad, sadness appear more bearable; love... well, could just not be lessed or made easier.
