“I have no idea,” I say, shaking my head. “But the real question is, how am I going to decide who I love if I don’t even know who I am? And they’re all so perfect . . . and I’m”—I gesture to myself, looking down at my legs wrapped in a hospital sheet and my hands that are scuffed and scratched up—“not.” “You clearly are to them, and you owe it to yourself to figure out what your heart wants. It’s not your fault you got hit by a car.” She pauses and squints.
