Amber Smith

And I’m just a girl, a girl who needs to pick up her own pieces and put them back together herself.

take a breath as I try to memorize him, and then finally I turn away.

He came into my room. It was 2:48—I looked at the clock—by 2:53 it was over,”

. I stare at my hands—these steady, capable things—capable of things.

get the feeling that his arms are the only thing holding these broken pieces of me together.

Why do I feel like, sometimes, I have no one in the entire world who knows me in even the slightest, most insignificant way?

I have nearly forgotten all about Josh Miller and the seat he was saving for me. Forgotten everything except for those eyes, that is.

I steal a glance. He’s grinning. He’s cute, and he knows it too.

He laughs too, as he takes his phone out. I recite my number to him, never wanting this moment—him standing close to me like this, smiling—to end.

“I’ve never seen you eat before. You look cute.” He laughs