“Sometimes, the writing just flows from my fingers, and the words come to mind faster than my fingers can move, and I can barely keep up with myself. That’s when I feel happiest. I feel like music is flowing through my bones, and the beat is governing my mind, ordering the words out to fight.”

She would often go on long rambles, such as this one, well-thought out (although they were all spur of the moment) and very much her. She had this air of sophistication around her, and her white blonde hair was always like a cloud around her face. She was like another Luna: removed. Removed only one step back, however. She was very much aware of what was around her, no matter the topic. Well versed in all languages and slang used in our school, she was an artist.

But though her language and miniature speeches were planned, every part in its place, and words used eloquently, her thoughts were another story. Very much like the much loved characters of The Fault in Our Stars, her thoughts were stars that she could not fathom into constellations. I could tell that much from her expression. It was always the same one; a sort of utter confusion and disbelief, like she couldn’t understand what she was saying. Or that there was something missing that words seemed to do no justice.

Like any artist, her thoughts were laid bare on paper, be it a drawing, a story, or a painting. Almost every thought could be seen, but, sometimes, like she said, her fingers couldn’t keep up and the train of thought she had been experiencing was lost on the reader. She was brilliant, but misunderstood, at least in the way that she wanted.

“Do you ever think that one can run out of words? I think so. I mean, how do you describe your sorrow when everyone has already used every word available to describe their sorrow? So what are you supposed to do? Make up your own words? Well, if that’s the case, then I shall call my sorrow platurement and my joy will be called suressical and my anger will be called calistreo.”

She was undeniably British; what American could speak like that with no effort? What person, at our school, could think up those things? In other words, she was very much an outsider as she was involved in the news.

People saw her genius, but didn’t understand. I’m the broken record, constantly repeating her misunstandment by our peers. But that’s what it’s all about. They heard her words, but couldn’t listen or pay attention well enough to comprehend them.

“The end? Oh, I’m horrible at endings. The ones I write are absolutely dreadful. They always end with a character dead. I don’t know why. I guess death is the only way I’ve ever imagined an ending.”

Well, now they’re listening, and her words are coming across loud and clear.