This was the arm of a girl who used to be the epicenter of my own personal snow globe, the two of us warm and safe inside our bubble while the world spun outside. I knew her favorite food—mac and cheese with extra breadcrumbs—how she liked to sprinkle cinnamon across the whipped cream on her hot chocolate, and the way her eyes lit up when she found a new romance novel. I knew she hummed when she was happy and went quiet when she was truly upset. I knew her. Or I had. Now, with absolute crushing, heartbreaking clarity, I stood on the outside of her snow globe, watching this stranger occupy the
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