“Flora.” She says it with a sigh, and I think it might be the first time she’s ever said my name to me. “I don’t even know what colors I like anymore, much less enough about myself to tell you what kind of book I would read when I never have read for fun before. I’m not you.” Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Or maybe I am delusional. But I swear I almost hear a hint of admiration in those last three words—I’m not you—as if being me is something to be proud of.
