Adelaide

by Genevieve Wheeler

Adelaide Williams had a theory. Well, she had many theories, but chief among them was the belief that people entered our lives when we needed them most. The important ones tended to, at least. Celeste and Madison, Sam and Eloise. In her mind, the same was true of books. The words of Orwell, Plath, and Louisa May Alcott had made their way onto her school syllabi when she most needed to read them, of this she was certain.

Adelaide—the girl who felt everything—had to remind herself that it was, in fact, okay to feel. That it was okay to fill her lungs with air, her tank with fuel, her brain with the chemicals it needed. It was okay to go to hell and back, to carry every ounce of light and darkness inside of her. It was okay to love herself fiercely, a little selfishly, and with intention. It was all okay.