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Don’t talk about what happened on December 6. Ever.
It was mine, proof that I could withstand anything and proof that those who love you the most can be the ones who hurt you the most.
That, out of all of it, was the worst thing about dying. The realization that the final pleasures you experienced in life were done without the proper appreciation.
Our expiration was looming, and I was both giddy and nostalgic for it.
Emotions like sadness were harder for me. They were like communion wafers—void of taste. Envy, greed, passion—those I felt vividly. Those I savored. They were explosions of flavor, a spicy conch salad of emotion.
Sometimes it’s not the people that change. It’s the mask that falls off.
