“M-me?!”

“Yes, you.”

“Why would you write a book about a horrid, gossipy, downtrodden teenager that doesn’t know where her life is going?”

“I chose to write about a very strong person.” Anne’s voice possessed too much maturity for her twelve years of age. “I chose to write about someone who’s been hiding her feelings for a very long time.”

I tried to swallow the lump that had conveniently lodged itself in my throat.

“H-her feelings? What feelings?”

“There’s a very huge conflict in my story,” Anne said, leaning back on her bed and fingering the pages of her work. “When someone does something wrong, it doesn’t mean he meant it.”

My throat stung with regret, and a bitter taste tipped my tongue.

“It just means that he didn’t really know how to express himself.”

”...To…to who?”

“To a special someone.”

“And that someone would be…?”

“Oh, my main character, of course,” Anne chuckled, smiling deviously. “Poor thing, she’s always in the dark.”