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Sometimes, in my memory, she lingers there, in the entrance of my room, like she’s waiting for me to notice something.
That was the problem with a place like this: Everything was right out in the open, including the life you could never have.
Except I was. In one way or another, I was never more myself than right then. Desperately, terrifyingly, unapologetically myself. And I’d just discovered the power of it, how it wreaked destruction, not only on myself but on others.
She was fierce and honest—how had I not seen her there in the shadows?
how you could become so lost in your own anger and grief and bitterness that you can barely see anything else.
Nothing at his core but the belief that he was worth every little thing he had been given.
