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I am respected, discussed, gossiped about. Not really talked to.
I can’t smile back. I don’t think I’ll ever smile again.
He didn’t believe me . . . but the thing is, no one ever believes what I say until I actually end up doing it.
She’s pretty in a way that distracts me just like she did in the Skiz ring. No, pretty’s not the right word. Beautiful. And not only that, but she reminds me of someone. Maybe it’s the expression in her eyes, something at once coolly logical and fiercely defiant. . . . I feel my cheeks growing warm and suddenly look away, glad for the coming darkness. Maybe I shouldn’t have helped her. Way too distracting. At this moment all I’m thinking about is what I’d give up for the chance to kiss her or to run my fingers through her dark hair.
For a moment she looks so sweet that I can’t help but laugh. Instantly I feel guilty. How can I laugh so soon after my brother’s death? These two have a strange way of making me lose my composure.
She’s not cynical or jaded. The streets haven’t broken her. They’ve made her stronger instead.
If she had not led to the death of my mother and my capture, if I did not wish she were dead, I would find her absolutely breathtaking.
Focus, I remind myself angrily. A panicked person is a dead person.
