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“I think it’s the opposite of cowardice to be true to who you are,”
“We’re always alone with our own decisions.”
They were cordial, friendly—but they circled each other tentatively, as if the other person was a fire whose warmth they craved but knew might burn.
I know what it’s like, to not be the person your family expects you to be. And how hard it is to act for yourself after that.” He cleared his throat; his voice had gone scratchy. “It’s not your forgiveness we need. Just your understanding.”
Now, however, he felt no great relief or happiness—only the sort of heaviness that comes from wanting something for so long that the final achievement of it is a loss—because the waiting is over and the waiting has become too much a part of oneself to let go of easily.