Author's note: Lyrics credited to Mayday Parade's Terrible Things and inserted in the story to make things more interesting. And because I like to torture myself with it on repeat when I'm feeling down.
Prepare yourself for serious cheese. Hokey and pokey but I mean every word of it.

So yupp. Clare writes a letter to Imogen. Maybe she'll send it, maybe she won't. But that isn't the point really, anyways.

Enjoy, pretty please.

i. Slow, so slow, I fell to the ground on my knees

You caught me on a bad day. Obviously, you know that. It's not like a day spent hiding out in a bathroom stall could ever be considered a "good" day. Time well spent.

But already, I digress.

You caught me on a bad day. That seems to be the summation I'm looking for. No, I'm not starving or fatally ill or without a home, and nor do I have any other noteworthy, soul crushing problem.

You know my parents recently filed for divorce. My father, daddy, dad, pop, daddy, daddy, daddy, had—has—a bit of a wandering eye and an alleged inability to keep it in his pants, despite our supposed "Christian," virtuous lifestyle. But these things happen all the time, worldwide: affairs, divorce, broken families. So commonplace. I know that. And as much as I try not to, I can't help but feel I'm the only one. No one understands. No one ever could. Of course this is ridiculous. I am illogical and completely irrational. But no one seems to understand that I have no family, really. Not anymore. There is nothing of us left.

ii. Now most of the time…we'd laugh at the stars and we'd share everything

Eli. You know him. You know the story. I really, highly doubt you want me to rehash it for you. You know the song, that old tune. Sing along it you'd like.

…Eli

There are so many ways to start that sentence. His questions and cryptic answers, infuriating and all together fascinating.

But all you really need to know—as if you don't already—is my remaining guilt.

There is guilt. There is self-doubt and otherwise.

Eli and I—we're not exactly what one would call normal. Eli has his life, his past. I had—(still have) my insecurities—my selfishness yet overwhelming need to help him… Except I'm just this girl. What do I know about the world? About real problems? I couldn't help him. I couldn't save him.

He scared me.

And I think that fear is what frightened me the most.

He overwhelmed.

I stood stock still.

He pulled me in and I let him.

He suffocated me with that intensity.

I ran, tail between my legs, far, far away.

That night I came back from the hospital, after the dance, I wrote Darcy my first letter in over a year.

She answered and said we loved too much. I wanted to believe her.

iii. I know I shouldn't say this, but I really believe I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me

And then, so unexpectedly, I found someone, someone who might just possibly listen and nod at all the right parts and tell me I'm not insane. Tell me he felt the exact same way about his family. Tell me he survived. Hold my hand and pull me through.

iv. Now…I'm only telling you this because life can do terrible things
But when it comes to his father, he likes to do the so-called "right" thing. And suddenly, I'm reluctantly, begrudgingly helping with wedding invitations and bridal gown alterations, making our parents happy, the two so annoyingly like teenagers themselves, while he and Glen fix the backyard for the wedding ceremony. I see them from my bedroom window, talking, laughing, smiling like this is all normal.

I never did feel as though I was normal. For a while, there was a time I thought "Yes, new semester, new Clare. Let's give this average-teenage-thing a go."

But society these days—or ever, really—didn't, still doesn't look kindly on brothers who routinely made out with sisters in dark classrooms and used to whisper hurried "I love yous" while fumbling with things like buttons and bras. Hardly average. Hardly normal.

And don't get me wrong. The severe dearth of normalcy that is my life wasn't at all what led me to this, prompting me to write a letter you probably don't even want to read. Believe me, I barely even feel like writing it. But I've heard there's something cathartic about it.

I used to believe in it.

v. Too young to notice and too dumb to care

KC. Most times I feel he's barely worth mentioning. But he was in my life, better, worse or neither. I didn't quite love him yet. He never did—never could—love me either.

He never really tried.

vi. So don't fall in love, there's just too much to lose

You caught me on a bad day. No, not a day where I woke up at 4 AM and sat up with a realization like, "My God, my boyfriend will be my brother in one hundred and twenty seven days" or "Jesus Christ, my mother is treating her twenty-three year marriage to my father as if it was nothing, nothing at all, and jumping into bed with the next likely, available candidate" or even let an infamous: "My life is being held together by tape" slip.

It wasn't any one thing. It was everything.

vii. If given the choice, then I'm begging you choose to walk away, walk away, don't let it get you

Have you ever had one of those days? Where you feel like your walls just fall away and you feel about to crumble? And for the life of you, you can't figure out how to stop it?

And the passerbies don't see. They don't spare a second glance.

But you stopped.

Why did you stop?

viii. I can't bear to see the same happen to you

Jake was this person who came into my life, everything unexpected, sweet. Any little glance he sent my way, its own little pleasant surprise. It was easy, fun. There were feelings.

Let's be serious. There are feelings.

But for him… It's hard to say.

He's always so calm. Level-headed. Eats dinner with the "family" as if he's done it his whole life. Asks my mother to make his favorite dish for dinner the next night. Smiles and washes the dishes. Hands me the towel to dry.

He's aloof.

I stay up late obsessing, overanalyzing, clenching and unclenching my fingers on the pillowcase, clinging for dear life.

He loves his father.

I feel as though I hate my mother.

He lives life, joking, building, crafting.

I stand stock still.

Did he ever love me? No, that's not the question. For only over a month, my extracurriculars were yearbook, newspaper and Jake Martin. A month and a half. The better question: would he have?

He said he loved me. But for how long?

My mother used to tell Darcy and me as little things that "Love is always."

But love was always.

Love is forgotten.

ix. You'll learn one day…

You caught me on a bad day. I didn't even think I wanted to be found.

But you didn't ask a question. You said you didn't need to know. But I'm telling you now. Because you made me cry with your words. Words like kind and dedicated and useful. I don't know if they're true or not. Times like these, I'm inclined to think not. I mean, as much as you might sort of think you do, you barely even know me at all.

But it—you—were sweet, nonetheless.

And I know I'm just too self-involved, impetuous and yes, stupid. I worry too much, overanalyze and see a shattered glass half empty. But you made me cry. You called me beautiful and worthwhile.

Maybe you were just lying, humoring me, trying to make nice for all the drama over Eli earlier in the year. But you did. You made me cry.

I don't mean to feel this way. It seems pretentious—self-pity, drawing people in to fish for compliments and whatnot. That's not what I intended.

But you called me beautiful. And you made me cry.

x. …I hope…

I don't know if there's a reason why they couldn't keep loving me. KC, Jake, Eli. They've left their mark. Tiny imprints in the sand, whole beaches washed away, sprawled desolate in my heart. My father, too. My mother, my sister...

I wonder if I deserve a love worthy of stories and songs and blockbuster movies.

But your kind words tugged at me. You smiled wanly and warmly and understood without knowing. You held out your hand and pulled me up off the dirty, tile floor of a school bathroom, made some stupid joke to make me laugh shakily, gratefully, and you let me have a friend.

xi. …and I pray…

You called me beautiful. You made me cry.

Imogen, no, you didn't fix my life. You didn't wave a magic wand and return everything back to days when Mom and Dad held hands in the grocery store or nights when Darcy snuck into my room or even to anytime before that innocent eye clouded over.

You hardly did anything at all but I really have to thank you. You never realize what words like that mean.

You said I was beautiful and worthwhile.

xii. …that God shows you differently

Beauty - (noun) A quality present in a person or thing which gives happiness to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (like shape, color and sound) or something else entirely (such as a personality in which high spiritual qualities are manifest)

Beauty - An individually pleasing quality; grace; charm

Worthwhile – (adjective) of value or importance

Now, I know neither of us are perfect—our lives can surely attest to that. But for a moment there, Imogen, you truly made me smile.

Author's note: So yesterday for reasons I won't dare get into because really it wasn't anything of epic proportions, I was feeling pretty down on myself. I'm lucky enough to have a friend who knew just what to say.
I think we can all relate to those type of feelings- doubt, emotional exhaustion and whatnot.
And yes, this story is cheesy and corny and hokey and it took some effort to build Clare's character, but I really meant the ending.
Obviously, I'm not talking about physical beauty here but something else entirely.

Your thoughts are kindly appreciated =)