She liked driving with the windows down even when it was cold outside. Because it reminded her of summer and of warm nights in her old neighbourhood and of friendships with people that you didn't understand until they were over.
She didn't mind being sad. Sadness was something familiar, something real, something to remind her that she was human and to remind her to do the things she enjoyed with more reckless abandon. It wasn't a heavy sadness, just a light one. A comfortable sadness that was needed every once and a while. Like rainy days and naps. She understood that allowing yourself to be sad was just as important as allowing yourself to be happy.
She fell in love with everything. It wasn't enough to be interested in something. She had to let it consume her until the passion inspired or irritated everyone she came into contact with. It was this way with everything, books, coffee, a band, the boys she could not have. She was either apathetic or immersed, always.
She drove people away and attracted them at the same time. People showed interest in her, in the way that people show interest in everyone. In their lives and in the curious ways by which they live them. But once people came close, once she let them in, her affection for them would drive them out. She needed it to be everything or be nothing. She could not handle being "sort of" anything. Yet she was sort of a lot of things. Sort of a good person. Sort of a recycler. Sort of into art. Sort of bad at math. She sort of liked sports. And sort of liked tea. But she didn't talk about these things. Being "sort of" isn't romantic. And anything not romantic was not worth talking about.
She lived in fear of the dark. Of the all consuming ache of brokenness. The mean reds Audrey warned us of. They come without warning. While you're driving home from work, while you're out for lunch, when you wake up in the middle of the night and you don't know why but you're overwhelmed. By your life, by your friends, by your human need for sleep. The most dangerous thing about the dark is acknowledging it. If you don't pay it any attention, it won't bother you. But once you're aware of it, there is no escaping. Just like the mean reds, she lived in fearful anticipation for it.