I care about her. Even though no one else does.

Mean kids are her life. She calls them "balls of drama". They're bullies and I told her I hate them. And she told me she loves me. She might be broken, but I'm not quite sure. I want to fix her, though. I want to be her best friend. Because I don't think she has a lot. I think she's great. But I guess I'm the only one. No one else thinks she's important. I think everyone else is dumb. She thinks I'm nice. Not a lot of people think that. She thinks I'm funny, too. Even though I hardly joke around with her. She's younger than me but she's my hero anyway. I wish I could go to school with her. And help her when people are mean. Because how do you protect someone who lives an hour away? I wish I knew. All I can do is say nice things to her and pray she believes me. She makes me think. About everything. About nothing. And now I listen to piano music and stare at the ceiling and look up poems about bullies. I wake up in the middle of the night because I swear my dreams are real. My dreams are usually about her. Which I thought was weird at first. But now I'm used to it. Her mom told me she sits with a Down syndrome kid at lunch. Which is one of the many reasons why I think she's wonderful. She told me she had a good day today. I don't know if I believe her. I'd be more like her but I know I can't. And I'd tell you how nice she is, but I can't do that either. She jokes and says all the bullies love her. I actually do, though. And I wish everyone else did too.