She was so available to him that she didn’t notice all the ways he manipulated every stare and withheld every comment; her nervousness building all the more as she wondered, What does he want from me? instead of What do I want?
What do I really want? Because evidently this isn’t it, or I wouldn’t be so unsure—so despondently lazy that I’d take being wanted over being seen. Seen for who I really am, for what I really want.
What he wanted was the laid-back girl he had once been with, the one he spoke about so fondly, and I wondered if that could be me. Could I be? Sure. But that is only one part of me, and not the part reserved for tall towers or important soliloquies.
I want it now. I wanted it then.
And why should I have to become different for you to feel free, for you to remain in control?
Vachon Imagined 
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