Charles crumpled his latest attempt tight in his fist, cursing his inability to express his feelings. He'd tried to confess before, but he'd frozen up and ultimately decided that a letter would be a more forgiving medium to demonstrate his affections. He was sorely mistaken. It'd taken him three months to finish obsessively consulting templates he'd found online and solidify a rough draft of the typical things people wrote about when they were in love. His search yielded nothing more than typical, cliche advice. The subtle jabs he'd gotten from his friends hadn't served him much better, so he'd disregarded it all and begun again from scratch. After a minute or two of bumping his head against his desk in self-imposed agony, he reluctantly opened the sad excuse of a letter he'd spent the last hour slaving over and steeled himself to reread whatever monstrosities he'd written with fresh eyes. A single sentence awaited him. _You incapacitate me._ He groaned loudly, slamming his head into the desk with a sharp thud.

When I think of you on that day Tired of the pain we endured I'm glad that you went away Mama did nothing but pray When you'd left on your own, matured When I think of you on that day I hope that you've been okay And living on your own now, cured ...I'm glad that you went away.

Jo watched as the red dot steadied on her chest, stabilizing as the sniper she'd scoped out minutes ago finally found his mark. She raised a brow, clearly unimpressed by the display. "...That's it? A _sniper?_" If she wasn't in mortal danger, she may have laughed at the audacity of it all. Jo studied the man who'd invited her to dinner under the guise of a much needed apology. A peace offering. A plea to mend what had been broken. She gave him a scathing look. She'd known it was a trap from the beginning, but a sniper? _Really?_ __ __ "You've grown sloppy," she muttered, picking up the menu and flipping through it casually, as if she wasn't a moment's decision away from death. "What's it been, only five years apart and already you're resorting to _hitmen_?" She gestured emphatically, clearly displeased. "Darling, if you wanted to kill me, at _least_ do it yourself."

The You who isn't someone You're proud to be The You who Scrunches their toes And hunches their back The You who Picks their nose And lets lingering silences linger The You who lives spontaneously In the moment, Who shuns the rehearsed jokes And practiced smiles Of the typical social convention The You who startles Who retreats into another, Polished You When someone _else_ comes near.