I’m convinced if I were to meet a little 7 year old me again, she’d hate me. Or maybe she wouldn’t understand. I don’t know. I’m not her, she’s dead, I wanted her back so bad but she’s gone. She would be so confused, and I wouldn’t want to explain to her who she is now. And then she would try to make it better but it wouldn’t work, and all she’d learn is that she’s a fucking disappointment. Nothing she nor I nor either of us at any age will ever amount to anything, we’re insignificant to the grand scheme of this disgusting world. And I hate that. I hate that I know that, and I hate that 7 year old me would’ve just began learning that as well. And anything I say to keep her from becoming me, would be a lie.