Sometimes it’s as if she’s still that little twelve-year-old. Newly diagnosed and unsure about everything. Especially herself. She’s an acquired taste, like fernet or oysters. Never fits in. Too weird. She was never all the fishes in the sea. She was the junky thing found in the bottom of a drawer. And that was before her diagnosis. After? Friends didn’t get it. They dropped off, quit calling. Either thought she was weird or got weird about it themselves. Ash learned then that when things got hard, people who love her will let go. So it’s better if she does it first.
