Dear Diary,

When I met her, she was crying on the wet, rubber seat of our elementary school swings. Class had just ended and Daddy was running late again, so I skipped down the hill leading to the playground and hummed the lyrics to my new favorite song (sung by my idol and future best friend Barbra Streisand in her award winning Broadway musical: Funny Girl.)

Anyways, when I walked down the hill, I heard some sniffling and at first, I was mad. Who could possibly be interrupting my time to sing?

So I huffed and stomped down to scold the rude person on how to respect someone's time when I saw her. She was so delicate. Her dark brown hair was held low in a ponytail, but it was messy and hair was sticking to her cheeks. Her round glasses, pushed up into her hair, shined from the sunset but her eyes shined from the tears.

And, oh gosh, her eyes were... intense to be honest. They were gold and forest and sky and deep, deep earth. They were bright with frustration and misery. We stared each other (for who knows how long) until I gripped the sleeve of the dolphin sweater Papa had given to me and said,

"Hi. I'm Rachel. You messed up my singing."

I've never wanted to smack myself so hard in the face. The girl looked at me before staring hard at the ground. I was very conflicted. Daddy had always told me that if I didn't have anything nice to say then I shouldn't say anything at all, but then again, he also told me that I should always introduce myself to people to make my presence known.

I wiped the sweat on my palms on one of the dolphin's knitted fins and went to sit next to her. I held still when she glanced at me and then it was silent.

The type of silence that makes you itch with all the things you want to say.

So I spoke.

A lot.

"I'm sorry if I was mean you by telling you to stop crying. My Daddy always tells me to watch what I say because I have no filter, so I say things that often hurt people's feelings. He says I get it from Papa but, to be honest, I hear Daddy during football season and he really fills up the swear jar." I looked at her and she had a tiny smile on her face.

We started rocking slowly and listened to the creak of the swings when I asked for her name. There was a pause and then a soft, "Lucy."

Lucy.

I said it under my breath in different octaves like my choir teacher taught me.

It was small, but sweet. It fit her.

Sometimes when I woke up, I'd still have the memory in my mind. When things get too hard and there's no time to breath.

Going into high school, Lucy began to upgrade from blond to brunette and wearing contacts, instead of her glasses. She realized that in order to become popular, you couldn't be friends with a jewish girl with a big nose, two dads and penchant for randomly singing broadway musicals. So I got left behind.

Lucy became head cheerleader and sometimes I laugh at how little I've changed compared to her.

Sometimes, I wondered who got really the worst deal.

Because, during those quiet moments in the hallways, I'd catch Lucy -sorry, Quinn - staring at me with this look on her face and I couldn't help but think back to squeaky swing sets and hazel eyes that just aren't as bright as they used to be.