I liked to believe I was the superhero of my own story. If I were a superhero, my superpower would be what a genuinely good person I am. I was. Friends, I was well aware that I sometimes sacrificed too much for my friends, but I just couldn't help it when they looked at me with pleading eyes, and I remembered the satisfaction after the fact of knowing I did something kind for someone.

I felt my friend staring at me, again with those pleading eyes. It didn't take me long to decide what to do. I didn't have time anyway. I threw myself into my friend who was frozen in panic, pushing her out of the way of the semi truck that was barreling at her with the horn blaring and the breaks squealing, unable to gain traction on the road coated in ice.

My life didn't flash before my eyes. I didn't think about my uncompleted bucket list. I didn't think about the fact I wouldn't be able to watch my little sister graduate high school, get married, raise a family. All I thought was that while I may have saved a life, I let mine be taken from me. I may be the superhero of everyone else's story, but I was the villain of my own.family, acquaintances, everyone I met told me I was the nicest person they had met. I would do anything for the people who I cared about, even the ones I knew wouldn't do the same for me.

Being so kind hadn't always worked in my favor. In eighth grade, I let my friend copy off of my test despite my better judgment. We were both caught, and we both had a week of lunch detention. In eleventh grade, I let another friend store her booze in my room, out of the way of her parents prying eyes. When my little sister found it, I again took the fall. My car was taken away for months after that.