sericite
She was left wondering what would become of her now that Papa was gone. She had never been on her own, never been without Papa, not since Mother had died. She was about to find out if the world was as hard on little girls as Papa had always said.
She wasn't interested in his excuses. How many times had she forgiven him now. Twice? Three times? She no longer believed he could change. She looked at him now without hearing him, at his lips flapping open and closed like a fish in an aquarium. She felt the same cold disinterest that she would for that same fish.
She values his friendship. But perhaps that's lead him to believe that she wants more from him. He certainly has gotten more flirtatious, even though she only thinks she's being friendly. She wonders how bad it will get when she finally has to tell him they can only be friends.
I wish I was a more active force in my own life. It's funny. I keep wanting change, but I keep moving along as if change was something that would happen to me rather than something that I make happen. You'd think I'd have learned that by now. But here we are. I'm passive. Not active.
Grateful is such a loaded word. If only I were more grateful, maybe I wouldn't be depressed all the time. If only I were more grateful, I wouldn't always be chasing happiness. Gratitude is great, don't get me wrong. But I have a hard time believing that it's lack is the root of so many problems. But then maybe I'm just not grateful enough.