I wonder about all the thoughts people have ever had about me. If anyone ever thought of sending me something just like the messages on the unsent project, if anyone had ever typed a paragraph that deep and profound and unsent it. I wonder if I could have been pulled out of a dark place by a potential message but they decided to let their words slip away. Love is a very particular emotion weird but so comfortable. It can both bring you onto cloud nine or dump you into the depth of your despair. I often catch myself losing track of my thoughts but it always finds its way to the topic of love. Being a hopeless romantic in the 21st century has its perks. The opportunities that arise from dating apps, mutual friends online, having everyone's information at your fingertips and etcetera. Being a hopeless romantic in the 21st century is also one of the most tragic of love stories. Speaking of tragic love, Shakespeare once said "‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind' such beautiful words were the inspiring truth but now, they represent nothing but a mere dream. In a generation that romanticizes hook up culture, one who hopes to meet the love of her life has to go through dozens of heartbreaks. Boys who want her for her hourglass figure but not the incredible passion she has for sports. Boys who love her long silky hair but will lose all his so-called 'feelings' with one chop. Boys who compliment her enchanting smile yet could not put aside five minutes to listen to her hopes and dreams. Boys say "be here at nine" instead of "I'll pick you up at nine." No more opening car doors no more spontaneously showing up at her house. Even in 1823, Lord Byron could foresee this, chivalry is dead. Boys submit messages to the unsent project. Boys recognize their mistakes only after losing a woman but it's okay, they move on in a week. You may have noticed I have a lot to say about boys but men - men are different. A typical person may define boy and men as roughly the same. "Boys are just a younger less developed version of men right?" Very true but so very wrong. Men find their woman and hold onto them tight. To men, the right woman makes everything else a blur. Men see the woman of their dreams for her beauty, yes, but men will transform that perception of beauty. Her hopes and dreams are reflected in her smile, her careful diet in the shiny hair. Her figure comes from a lifelong hobby and most of all, he knows they make each other happy for every single reason there could possibly be. I wonder about all the thoughts people have ever had about me. If anyone ever thought of sending me something just like the messages on the unsent project, if anyone had ever typed a paragraph that deep and profound and unsent it. In a generation that romanticizes hook up culture one who hopes to meet the love of her life has to go through dozens of heartbreaks. For a hopeless romantic, boys everywhere are put on a pedestal but it is when she finally loves herself that her one 'man' reveals himself amongst the boys. He will send that paragraph expressing his love instead of putting it on some anonymous website, she will finally know what it feels like to not have to work for his affection. Maybe he will enter her life right when she finds her own confidence or on a rainy day holding an umbrella over her head. When the day comes, "love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

I am fighting, flailing my little arms. A lady and a man I don't know, are stuffing me into this stupid car seat. I look out the fingerprinted window and there she is. Staring, watching, not doing anything at all. A single raindrop wanders its way down the window, lost, nowhere to go. I fight even harder, refusing to stop until I get what I want. The car starts to move, so I twist my body to see if she is still watching. Deepening my twist, so I can get one last glimpse before we turn off the street. I face forward with tears streaking my face. I don't know these people who are taking me away from her. From the lady, I have known all my life— my mother. I am confused, trapped in this strange building. After they took me from my mother, they took me to this horrid place. I feel completely claustrophobic locked in this small room. I hope I can leave this devastating room. I honestly don't know why it seems so devastating, but I guess it just is. The room is bland, boring. The walls are an off-white color. A dissatisfying color. The only toy here is a small kitchen set. The kitchen set looked as if to break at the slightest touch. It has white paint peeling off. The paint being torn from the set, just like me. I miss her terribly, my mother. I feel scared, my anxiety spiking. I am just sitting on this patched up couch looking at the cup of water on the table next to me. Random people keep poking their heads in, trying to encourage me to drink water, but I am not thirsty. I hope they find something better to do than to keep bothering me. The same woman and man that took me from my mother walk through the door and stand in front of me. I stare at them blankly as the woman says, “My name is Ms. Blaster and this is Mr. McDoris.” I nod my head, for my mind is elsewhere. My mind is busy. Busy on all the worries rushing through my head like a tsunami. Ms. Lee gets on both knees and looks directly into my eyes and says gently, “Can you come and follow us, please?” She stands up and walks out of the room, with Mr. McDoris following. I hesitate, then finally give in and run to catch up with them. I walk into a massive lobby. People are sitting in black chairs. It felt airy, unlike the small room I was in. The people were all nicely dressed, they seemed arrogant, even though I have never met them before. Windows cover most of the walls. I continue to follow Mrs. Blaster and Mr. McDoris. They lead me to this woman I remember spending time with a couple of months ago. She would take me to the Kings Dominion and Maymont. The woman is wearing nice clothing just like everyone else, except I could tell that she wasn't like them at all. She's not really tall, but she is definitely much taller than me. Ms. Blaster, Mr. McDoris, and the woman start talking about something that seems like it's important, but I'm not paying attention. I am busy trying to understand the situation. I squeeze onto the woman's hand as if it's my life support. I make our way to the car and she buckles me into my car seat. She walks around the front of the car and gets into the driver's seat. Once again, raindrops hit the window. A single drop wanders all the way to the bottom and disappears. More lead their way into the safety of the frame. Tucked safely together. United. Every insignificant thing belongs somewhere. For some reason, that gives me a sort of clarification that everything is going to be alright. I think this is the first time I truly feel safe in a really long time, I don't have to endure any more pain, physical nor emotional like I have before. I also think that you have to believe it yourself, you have to believe that things are going to get better. You have to have hope. Hope. Hope is a wonderful thing. For the first time, I have hope. I have hope that I will be safe. I have hope that I will be happy. I have hope for my future and hope for now. Even though I have endured tragedy, I have regained hope.

I've had a to rip off quite a few band-aids in my life already. I turned 60 at the age of nine, and every year I continue to get older. CYS removed me from my mother's home, and released me to my second cousins-whom my sister and I did not know well. A year and three long and grueling court battles later, our father finally rescued us from our cousins basement. While living with dad we moved three times, and changed schools twice. I made many friends, though temporary, as many are. Living with dad was the way I felt life was supposed to be, he had a stable income, and loved us unconditionally. He kept us happy and At the top of the list of priorities resting on his always weary shoulders. His health though deteriorating, he remained to be the father he always wanted to be. Until I was thirteen years old, the day after my birthday, my father was struck by an 18-wheeler and killed instantly. To this day it is the worst moment of my life to come home from school only to find my to-be stepbrother, ready to deliver news no one should need to give to a child. This eventually resulted in more custody battles, once again landing us back into the welcoming hands of our cousins. For another year, there was where we stayed. It was an eventful year, I had found a love for singing in my youth group and my mother had gotten pregnant with a new sister. Elated to finally go home, my sister and I moved back in with our mom. The baby was born the upcoming fall. She has since then become my sole purpose for life. However, During my tenth grade year of school I found my mental health getting worse everyday, due to my mother's drinking. I gave her one more chance to come clean and remain sober. She didn't take my warning seriously. I moved out early march, and went to live back in with my cousins. I am now sixteen years old, it has been three years since my father's death, and my cousins have come to feel more like parents than ever. My mental health is getting better with every psychiatrist visit, my sisters grow older and get even more beautiful every day. My mother, though upset with my decision to stay here, still supports everything I do. I have ups and downs still, but the ups are starting to get even with the downs. I try and strive harder and harder everyday to become the young lady my father would be proud to call daughter. I am a strong, resilient, blossoming woman, who just keeps on going. I am determined to not only change my life, but to change the world. All I can go from here is forward and I will grow more everyday, keeping my goals in front of me and in reach. I'm so much stronger than I used to be, I understand so much more. After all, I am a 60 year old trapped at sixteen, And well.... I've come so far.