Some days, I still feel as if I can't do anything right.

It's true that I now no longer spend entire days lying on my bed in Hello Kitty pajamas or secretly scarf down meat like some starved animal in the dead of the night. I also regularly shop with Lana and Trish, an activity once unthinkable to my freshman self but now one of the only things that…well, makes me feel like a normal teenage girl, not Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Genovia. J.P. and I have also gone on a few dates, and unlike most guys I know, he takes Beauty and the Beast on Broadway with the same deserved deference that I do. For all purposes, my life seemed to be perfectly on track.

I put on a smile for all my friends and my Mom, Mr. G, and Rocky. I attend all my princess lessons, even if Grandmère still makes me want to pull my hair out sometimes. But depression wasn't something that just went away, vanishing into anti-matter as if it had never existed in the first place, as much as I wish it did.

Some days, I still feel like doing nothing but staying at home, under my duvet. I can't watch Judge Judy anymore because my parents took my television away, based on Dr. K's recommendation (I still think that having a freaking cowboy psychologist cannot be completely healthy to my mental health). However, I could curl up with Fat Louie and thumb through worn pages of Jane Eyre. Some days, I still miss Michael.

In times of trial and tribulation, Jane was steadfast to her values and principles. She had enough guts to just walk away from Rochester after finding out about Bertha and the whole he'd be taking two wives issue. She was a true feminist, I mused. After Michael broke up with me because I went all crazy on him when he made the decision to go to Japan to work on his robotic arm for me, I fell apart, even though everything that happened was pretty much my fault.

I sighed, and Fat Louie mewled in irritation as I stopped petting him and instead hugged him close to me. I stared despondently at the last e-mail I sent him:

Dear Michael,

How are you? I hope the robotic arm is doing alright.

Senior year is starting, and I have a feeling I'll soon be swamped with work. All my classes are going well, except Pre-Calculus. Then again, when have I ever done well in Math? Everybody's talking about what they're going to do for their senior projects. I better come up with an idea soon.

Mia

It was definitely an improvement over not responding to his e-mails at all, but today in particular I was struck by how dry and dull my emails were. As if Michael wants to hear about high school, a snide voice in my head remarked. He's in Japan, working on a revolutionary project that could potentially save millions of lives, and what are you doing? I wondered how he could ever think that it was him that needed to be worthy of me. Being a princess wasn't necessarily a dream come true, like so many girls would think. In my case, it simply meant a bodyguard, princess lessons with an overbearing grandmother, and constant attention from the press that never seemed to leave me alone these days.

I sighed once again. Dr. Knutz would have told me some anecdote about a horse named Bubbles that made the most of things and ran around his ranch daily instead of just eating hay.

Suddenly, my computer pinged and my inbox had a new message.

SKINNERBX: Dear Mia,

I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking. Things are going as well as could be expected, with the progress we're making.

Have you talked to Mr. G about extra tutoring? I'm sure he'd be willing to put in a few extra hours. Don't stress about senior year. It's hard work, but I'm sure you'll pull through. We all did. No one thinks they'll come up with a great idea at first, but in the end, everybody graduates with amazing projects under their belt.

Michael

For some unfathomable reason, my eyes welled up with tears. When did our conversations become so bland? I remember nights of endless conversations, cuddling under blankets to watch another Star Wars marathon. Aside from losing a boyfriend, I lost a safe space. A person I could go to just to feel like I was at home once again. I blinked back tears and images of the last time we saw each other, of me throwing my necklace-his gift-away and ripping away everything we had shared. How could I be so stupid?

I felt some guilt at these thoughts, having started dating J.P., a boy who made me perfectly happy and treated me perfectly well…But as cliché as it sounded, it simply wasn't the same. J.P. won the admiration of the general public at this point, tall and blond and seemingly the perfect gentleman. He was rich, charismatic, and artistic. He held opened doors for me and brought me back way before curfew.

I didn't know how to explain the stilted quality of our relationship at times, as if I was playing a part in some role I didn't sign up for. Some days, our relationship felt like a plastic film stretched over reality. I felt stuck smiling and going on as I had been going on everyday since Michael had left. I was stuck in some perpetual state of feeling as if I had lost something essential to me, and I had no idea about what to do to fix it.

Worst of all, the senior project decisions were weighing heavily on my mind. Everyone in school seemed to have some sort of driving purpose combined with unbelievable talent. I knew that Lily, though we weren't talking, was filming her show Lily Tells It Like It Is for her fans in Korea. J.P. was writing a play like he had always dreamed of doing. Even Lana was doing something about the history of eyeliner. Though this was seemingly a small issue in the midst of my larger problems, such as Genovia's uneasy transition into a democracy which Dad and Grandmère still blamed me for, it was an underlying symbol of my failure.

Everything was just building up. I fought the urge to look through the fridge for beefy takeout leftovers. I considered calling Tina, but it was a Saturday night. She'd probably be out on a date with Boris, and the thought of pretending to be fine so her night wouldn't be selfishly ruined was an exhausting one. J.P. would just want to take me out to see another Broadway show, and I lacked the motivation to even change out of my pyjamas at this particular moment.

What would Michael do in times of doubt? He'd invent something with his genius to fix everything. Princess Amelie would draft a law to save a country. My mother would call up her RiotGrrls to protest the latest social ill. They'd do something, not just lay in bed despondently.

Frustrated, I stared at my Moleskin journal. I wished I could write myself away from everything- Genovian politics, high school, relationship problems. Then, filled with a strange sense of defiance, I picked up my pen and wrote.

The trees were bursting with their first fruit, and the strong, sweet scent of flowers filled the air. The girl smiled at the happy familial scene before her: her father teaching her younger sister of the different types of trees that graced this land, her little brother blissfully chasing butterflies across the field. She had a soft look in her eye, in contrast to the hard lines her face was so oft set into of recent times. The mill had been doing well so far, until the events of last wintertime…She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. This girl had a plan, and she was determined to execute it.

This was set long ago, I decided. Maybe the Tudor period? It would also be a romance, I thought, scribbling down notes in the margins. Perhaps I could give this girl the successful, passionate romance that failed in my own life. Besides, if I were to debut as an author one day, romance novels statistically have a higher chance of getting published.

I paused.

And then I broke into a smile and hugged Fat Louie, who was not expecting it and subsequently mewled loudly. I think I just found my senior project.