“It really is nothing,” she mutters. “Let’s just get there.” “Humor me,” I coax gently. She groans, and I feel the weight leave her. “I just have…cramps, okay? I’m tired, and this morning, I cried at a car commercial I saw on social media. All I want is the worst, greasiest food I can find—preferably a burger and fries with a milkshake to dip the fries into, and I don’t want anyone telling me it’s weird because I’ll just cry again. I want to sit and watch the new Taylor Swift tour movie for the seventh time because it makes me happy, and maybe I’ll cry at that too because it reminds me I
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