She was the kinda girl you'd read about in a John Green book. Tall, mysterious, tragic backstory, all the works. I'm not much of a protagonist though. No charisma, or glistening six pack, no big secret. I never understood what she saw in me. She talked like words were nothing, like she was just thinking out loud. I have to force them out, like I'm squeezing the last bits of toothpaste out of the tube. She never complained when I stuttered, or ended a sentence half finished. She let me sit in a comfortable silence while she spilled the contents of her brain, and I loved it. The occasional moments of quiet were never really quiet, they were filled with a sense of calm. When I was with her, I felt like I was in some movie romance. Sometimes I could almost hear the quiet indie love song playing in the background. That's how it was in the beginning. Before she started to change. Before she started calling me to see where I was at ungodly hours. Before she stopped letting me see my friends. It hurt sometimes, but I understood. I was hers, and i didn't mind that. She was my goddess. The only constant i had in my chaos. Whenever something went wrong, it was my fault. I never argued, because hey, she was probably right. She was the smart one, after all. That's what her family said.