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“This isn’t who I was supposed to be. I used to be so nice. I used to be a nice, sweet, good person. And now I just—I just—I hate. I hate him. I hate him so much, Josh. I really do.”
“I hate him so much that sometimes, that”—gasp, gasp, gasp. “Sometimes I can’t feel anything else at all. Just hate”—gasp—“hate, that’s all, that’s everything. My whole life is just hate. And I can’t—I can’t get it out of me. No matter what I do, it’s always there, I just—I can’t—”
“Eden, of course I believe you, I—I just…” He inhales, and exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. “I just—you could’ve told me—you should’ve told me. Back when we were together. Why? Why didn’t you ever say anything? I would’ve believed you then, too.” God, I almost wish he didn’t just tell me that. I wish he’d said that he wouldn’t have believed me, because then I could feel justified in not telling him.
“Eden, it could work this time,” he says softly, inching his face away so we can look at each other, brushing my hair behind my ear. “I know it could. We could make it work.”
I don’t want it to be this time, though; I just want it to be then. I just want to go back. I want to start over and not become who I became.
His hands, his arms, can hold the pieces in place temporarily, maybe even for a long time, but he can never truly put them back together. That’s not his job. He’s not the hero and he’s not the enemy and he’s not a god. He’s just a boy. And I’m just a girl, a girl who needs to pick up her own pieces and put them back together herself.
I try to figure out why everything suddenly feels different. Lighter. Why I feel like, for once in my life, I might really have some control over what happens next. That things will happen next, instead of this perpetual nightmarish loop my life seems to be cycling.
That this isn’t all about me. This thing, it touches everyone.
I wish it was difficult to remember.
“He came into my room. It was 2:48—I looked at the clock—by 2:53 it was over,”
Or say you’re being humiliated and tortured by someone you trusted, someone you grew up with, someone you loved, even… five minutes is forever.
But there’s no way to really explain his mouth almost touching mine. No way to describe how completely alone I felt, like there was no one in the entire world who would be able to help me or stop him. Ever.
Maybe I’ll go to college, even, and maybe I’ll figure out that I’m actually good at something. Maybe he’ll get what he deserves. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll never find it in my heart to forgive him. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, either. All these maybes swimming around my head make me think that “maybe” could just be another word for hope.
