Tuesday, I experienced utter relief at a confessional. For some reason, writing my story doesn't always help the most. I never realized how much moving would affect me or the people I love who live here until I had to narrate my feelings. I just thought of the positives–that I'd be the smartest kid in my grade, that I'd be new and fresh and people might like me. I'd get a new start. And I'd still be able to see Derek every weekend. I'll be able to drive by the time we move. But that's not really the whole story; you have to look at both sides, something that I'm always capable of, but for some reason, this time, I was blocking out the cons in favour of the pros. I want to travel the world, so moving would be good, and I didn't tell anyone that because I knew they'd think I didn't love them anymore. The only visible negatives before Tuesday were that I wouldn't live near my friends and that I have social phobia. And it would put a definite strain on me and Derek and what with Prachi and Drew and everyone else whispering in my ear, "It's not going to work," or, "Long-distance relationships are stupid," I didn't feel any better about it. I mean, I always thought they were dumb, too, but then, at that point, I never thought I'd have one, much less that I'd have a boyfriend, period, to make me have to worry about things like that. But otherwise, not much to worry about.

My house is almost done now, though; my parents are getting a new shower door today, the driveway's sealed, the new lightswitch covers are in place, the photographs are off my doors and off my walls, things are gradually and stealthily coming out of the attic, being sold or kept in new places. When I said, "Maybe I should leave," it was in sarcasm. When I was asked, "Where," I figured that was also in sarcasm. And so I answered, "To Piñata Island, so you can go to rehab." But I didn't realize that it was real until an awkward silence hit and I couldn't find a face; it shifted out of view every time I tried to locate it. I had my suspicions, since I've found myself sheltering my eyes from the cruel world time and time again; nobody could make fun of me if they didn't see my emotions. But this was something else entirely. This was maybe fear and agony; I doubt I'll ever know. But it changed my views.

Maybe I want to travel the world because nobody in these new places will know me. They'll think I'm snazzy and new and they'll be deceived. I think I could get over my social phobia that way. And my family won't be around to remind me of who I was and who I'm supposed to be.

But moving isn't the best thing because I've been reminded and it's been certified that there are some people here who I care about more than I do about the world or about travelling or about French. And there may be people like that all over the world, but I don't want replacements for the originals.