My Friends

by Fredrik Backman

Nature gains nothing from unhappy children, yet they are still walking around everywhere, without the words to describe their anxiety. Because how could you even begin to explain such a feeling to someone who has been happy and secure all their life? Should you say it’s like a monster sleeping heavily on your lungs, so that every breath feels like you’re drowning? That it’s a voice in your head screaming that everything about you is a mistake?