Ever want something so badly you'd do anything to have it? Ever have it and be deathly afraid of losing it? I sit in the backseat of a car returning home from a cookout, being asked about my spring break. I have vivid recollections of the end of mine, circling Raleigh with my brother, watching Limitless and eating goodberrys with him. I recall the careless Sunday afternoon, sunny and juvenile, but so short-lived. And through the bliss of that afternoon, I see people's faces, those of who I miss so dearly. I fear that I won't see my brother for months, that my teenage life is like a jacket flying out the window, seconds away from no longer being mine. I tremble at the possibility that it was as great as it will ever be, and it has been sealed, enclosed in cardboard box and placed in an attack to accumulate dust.

I'm afraid mostly though that I have already given everything. But not for the sake of going back to the moments I love or for the sake of being with those people again, instead I gave them up for this. This lethargic, bitter place I am in now. I fear, so deeply, that I have replaced what I loved with what I resent, and this switch is permanent.