She cried for what might have been, for the version of a perfect future that had, for a while, shimmered in front of her, that she had just started to believe might become a reality. She cried for her lost belief in herself; she’d considered herself so strong and clever but she’d turned out to be gullible and stupid. But most of all, she cried for the girl she’d thought she was becoming; one who was impulsive, spontaneous and fun-loving, who did things on a whim, without worrying about the consequences. The girl who wrote secrets in notebooks and scattered them to the wind. The girl who fell
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