I remember talking to her about Romeo and Juliet the night I met Arrow. We laughed, remembering what an idiot Juliet was. I never understood her before. Not really. But now I can imagine what it was like to wake up in that tomb and see Romeo dead beside her. The guilt. The grief. I’m not looking for a dagger, and I don’t want to die. But there are days—maybe more than I want to admit—when I don’t want to live either. “I’m not Juliet,” I whisper. “Don’t worry about that.”
