I imagine you to be 35 years old now. 17 years my senior. As of this writing, I am 18 years old closing in on 19 years and absolutely terrified of growing older. My hair hangs loose and past my shoulders, almost touching my waist. My fingers sport blue nail polish, uncaringly chipped. And between those slender fingers, my menthol cigarette is tucked limply. My black, thick-rimmed glasses ride low on the bridge of my nose. From time to time I push it back up almost unconsciously, much like a reflex. This is your life 17 years ago. You are a self-conscious, egocentric, insecure teenager with too many bad habits. I’d like to tell you how I feel nowadays. It wasn’t easy being you, 17 years ago. I am confused. I am stressed. I am painfully insecure and much too self-conscious. I am a bit heartbroken. I think you were too young to be jaded with life and love. I think you were much too young to give up on the prospect of a Prince Charming.