Feeling twenty-two, acting seventeen

In the end, it's the little things you remember, the ones that threaten to slip from your stored-up stash of memories-

Your hand intertwined with his
The warmth of having someone close to you
The way he ran his fingers through your hair
The striking absence of fear.

The little things you remember are the only ones that matter.

Or are they?

[How can you stand in front of me, take my hands in yours, and then laugh when i tell you that i worry? I am not only 22. I am 22. I worry about issues you'd never be able to fathom. Age has nothing to do with it. Nothing.]