My days feel full, like they could burst at any second. This might also explain how I managed to completely lose track of time and forget (until now!) that I am leaving home in eleven short days. Eleven. One, one. Not enough time.
My bed isn't as cozy as I remembered it to be. My friends are ten times more wonderful than I remembered them to be (which means they're very, very wonderful). I don't care about much I can touch these days. Which is good, I know.
How long until our tummies stop turning and our nerves stop breaking? How long?
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