by Too Young
I sit up in bed, in a panic, grasping pillows, throwing them out of the way to see the clock. It's after one in the morning, and you're still "out" with your friends. I try desperately to let you have your space because that fight was the same fight we've been having for the past two years, and I feel guilty every time I bring it up. These are the nights I'm asking myself if in ten years, if it's still like this, will it still be worth it? One more glance at the clock and I realize you're probably not going to be home for a while (if at all tonight). I look at that picture of us you put up the day we moved in and wish that you were here so I could tell you I was sorry for ever bringing it up.
Too Young is an aspiring business woman, slowly rising to the top and learning what the business world is all about. She’s been writing since she can remember, and hopes to one day make known (to more than just family) her secret passion for the art.