The door is at the end of the hall. She can see it clearly and it isn't even that far of a walk from the elevator, but some lurching feeling in her stomach tells her that she should have taken the stairs that would have left her right beside her door. For some reason, the long, lonely walk leaves her feeling even more desolate than she should.

She tries to tell herself that it's all in her head. She's obviously imagining it, because there is no way that all of these little disappointments could all be happening because of some completely unseen slight. But there hadn't been an invitation left at the end of that sentence, and she enters the room alone when she should be out with the other twelve people sharing it.

It's ridiculous--how old is she that such things could be read as insults? She needs to grow up and stop treating herself as if she were still a broken preteen, bursting with potential that is tempered only by the sort of angst a thirteen year-old girl can know. She's constantly doing these same things to herself, tearing herself down and destroying any sort of enjoyment she can ever glean from a situation. Every time she thinks she has broken herself of such habits, they come rearing their ugly heads and hiss and bite at her, ever the bitches they once were.

She tells herself that she's making it all up, that it's only this way because it's that time of the month when everything falls away into little pieces, unable to be scooped up and put back together. It's just that time of the year; she always has a hard time during these few days heavy with memories pregnant with hurt.

She's destroying herself and they have nothing to do with it. It's her own fault because it's all in her head. These people she knows, they are all good people. Why else would they bother any time with her? So then, the misunderstanding must be on her part, in her head, her fault. She can fix it.

When her name is called out and her head flies out of her book, she is simply misunderstanding the jokes coming from their mouths. That is why they sound like insults. It's just gentle, friendly teasing.

When they say they are going dancing, and she doesn't hear an invitation at the end of the sentence, that's just a problem with her ears. They left it dangling there, unspoken like a whisper in the dark, and it was her fault that she couldn't pick up on the simple nuances of their speech.

And maybe she is just too plain. When they are all spattering themselves with sparkles and shine and outrageous makeup, it isn't ridiculous. She's just being too old fashioned--too stiff and inflexible--to understand the point of it. And they know that she doesn't like those things, and certainly they know that she does not want to wear any of those over the top bobbles, and that is why they never offer to add adornments to her outfits. Obviously she knows how to dress well without looking like a giant piece of candy. She knows how to look like a sensible adult.

And yet, somehow her explanations always leave a nagging feeling in her gut. And for some reason, the more she reasons that she's the one out of touch with things, the more she feels as if something is horribly wrong.