'Meet me at the overpass,' I wrote. 'When the day comes.' I wanted to know so badly where I would end up. Would I be funny, pretty, sweet? Would my time be well spent? Would I make it out of this mess? Of course, I knew it was impossible. I'm only 17. I would have to wait like the rest of us.

Just in case, I went. Down my well-trodden path, in this city of bustle. Grey buildings domineered, I looked up to them, fraught. There wasn't much to see here, unchanging day to day. I walked to the centre, heavy legs dangling as busy cars rushed over black nowhere roads. Alone, I was startled - a kind woman tapped my shoulder.

'Pick yourself up,' she said, 'and dust yourself off. You'll be okay.'
'How can you know?' I crumbled by her side.
'I've been here before, things look up, I promise. Do you want to talk about it?'
'No thanks, I'm alright.' My overfull skin tightened. 'I trust myself to find the way.'
'I believe in you, she assured, her twinkling eyes gleaming.

I got up, smoothed my clothes, beginning the trek home. Warm leaves danced around me, brand new in the spring. I saw a butterfly, blue, fresh from cocoon's comfort. Black and white buildings seemed endless with possibility. I finished my journal entry: 'You weren't there, but I was. I will find my way.'