Love is. . .

I feel a child trembling. . .

I stormed away from the house and left. . .

Three weeks ago today. . .

Michael looked at the calendar hanging up in his English class with dread. . .

My dad griped about my friends constantly. He always talked about their odd hair color, telling me I was never. . .

I stand in front of the mirror tracing the shape of my face with the tips of my fingers: high cheekbones, set jaw. . .

There are two hours and four minutes of this drive according to my GPS and all of them will be spent recounting what happened. . .

Dear H. L.:

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the headline on my screen: