“You deserve to be happy too, you know,” she says softly. Which— “I know,” I say. “Do you?” “I am,” I counteract. “Are you?” She says it so patiently and with this fucking kindness—what is her deal? Eileen’s out here plucking at my heartstrings, trying to get me to care about, what, exactly? My self-fulfillment? My happiness? Who gave her any right to barge into my life like that? “Why do you even care?” I say quietly. The conversation fucking dies right then and there. Eventually she shrugs and we move on with our lives, but I still don’t get it. Why does she have to be so considerate and
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