“Honey.” She laughs. “I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.” It feels like a nail driven into my sternum. “Is that what I am?” I ask her. “You?” she says. “You, my girl, are whoever you decide to be. But I hope you always keep some piece of that girl who sat by the window, hoping for the best. Life’s short enough without us talking ourselves out of hope and trying to dodge every bad feeling. Sometimes you have to push through the discomfort, instead of running.”
