The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

I am no longer a whole number. I carry a decimal now. Each box in my room is just a reminder of my remainder. The problem is, I can’t figure out if I’m less than or more than I was before. I know I’m not the same.

If I want them to trust me, I have to trust them. And trust is handing over a piece of your heart to someone and believing they’ll hold it as delicately as you do.

Tom said I was leaving it behind, but that’s not how secrets work. They follow you. Haunt you. Steal your breath

“Perfection is overrated,” Color says. “What’s the fun in that? It’s our holes that make us interesting.”

Amit was giving me love. I just forgot that people have to be careful with love. You can’t go passing it back and forth to each other haphazardly, no matter how good it feels.