So my best friend Olivia.

She's amazing.

And she inspires me.

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."

Anaïs Nin

I-L-O-V-E-S-H-A-R-P-A-Y.

Weapon of choice: Glitter pen.

I-H-E-A-R-T-S-H-A-R-R-R.

Weapon of choice: Sharpie.

These were the words neither of them were able to say aloud. They were sleeves on his forearms, pages of his notebooks.

Her hearts, always incomplete. Her name, bold, looped, personal.

The sting, the irritation, the glittery pink... all worth it. And he would inspect the back of his hand, ink crawling across the crevices of his skin, a constant reminder of his promise. She colored in her hearts. She dotted her one 'i'.

Soon her words travelled up his forearm, her features disappearing in her work.

T-R-O-Y-L-O-V-E-S-S-H-A-R.

Her bangles clanging against the desk, one leg crossing over another. Her hearts were detailed, the scent of manufacturing and copyrights invading her space. The glitter now blinding, her name becoming a part of him.

Blonde bangs curtaining her flames, smile just as sparkling as the ink that was inscribed into his skin. He burned, pondering how long of a shower he would have to indulge for this branding to wash off.

S-H-A-R-P-A-Y-Y-Y-Y.

His fingertips were gone as well, dipped into this immense space of fire and ink. All ten fingertips, now considered hers.

Then words.

Words that scribbled out of his mouth, doodled past his lips, never to be erased even with the greatest of White-Outs. "I love you, Sharpay." Words that came as a secret, so quickly, almost inaudible.

The razor sharp point of her sword penetrated the skin. So delicately, so harsh.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-T-O-O-T-R-O-Y.

Her heart initiating at the core, fanning out into a wide v, blooming into something so pulsating, so alive. And it closed completely over his wrist, pink, ink, glitter, and all.

So my best friend Olivia.

She writes on me every chance she gets.

Bye.