There she was. Standing, in a paper white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Her wavy brown hair, that I loved to play with but she despised, was held together precariously by a single hair tie. The light flickered to an irregular beat, highlighting the strands of copper that streaked and danced through her head. Her back was to me, only emphasizing the gap, both physically and emotionally, between us. I could not see her face, but what I could see broke my already bruised and torn heart.
Her back. I could count every rib, every crevice, creating a story only understood by those who knew her. And only to those who knew her well. Like with everything else in her life, this girl had planned, processed, and produced this disease so that even a close inspection could not tell what was going on. Only through the little things did I even suspect that there was a crack on the perfectly created mask of Lacey Charleston.