The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient, #3)

by Helen Hoang

I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.

I do wonder if she’s acting just like I am. How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?

She’s my therapist, which means, in my mind, that she’s supposed to be helping me. And she hasn’t been able to, as far as I can tell. But I don’t want her to feel bad. People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves. So I’m constantly assessing her reaction and editing my words to appeal to her.

And even when I don’t like the sex itself, I do like to be close to him, to feel connected to him. It makes me feel less alone. Sometimes.

Family is not safe. Not for me. Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you’re already bruised and berates you when you don’t heal faster.

I laughed so hard that someone’s dog started barking outside.

“Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away.

This is physical attraction, I recognize. And I’ve never felt it before, not really.

Quan, on the other hand, has only known this chaotic, insecure, panic-attack-ridden side of me. He’s seen me at my worst.

No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself. But I did.

Apparently, Asperger’s syndrome is no longer used diagnostically in the United States. In 2013, it was grouped, along with other former neurological conditions, under the broad umbrella of autism spectrum disorder. Many in the autistic community prefer the use of descriptors like with low support needs as opposed to high-functioning, which was how Jennifer described me.

(What’s worse? Trying to have casual sex with a stranger or failing at having casual sex with a stranger?)

The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

Not really, but thank you for asking, she says, and her next message is a red heart. It’s super pathetic of me, but I fucking love getting hearts from Anna.

They don’t understand that this is just her way, it’s not personal, but she’s already put one of the nurses in tears. To make up for it, I try to be as nice to everyone as humanly possible. I am kind, I am sweet, I am considerate, I buy the hospital staff pastries. I appreciate you. Please don’t hate my family. Please care about my dad.

The following days pass in a slow crawl, and yet, when I look back, I’m amazed that an entire week has passed. Time seems to flow at a different speed here.

I’d need to break both my hands, and I can’t bring myself to do that. If I didn’t heal correctly, I’d never play again, and what if that inconceivable day came when music spoke to me again? What would I do then? Would my life even be worth living? What I would really like is a lobotomy.

I don’t want to feel anymore. I would give up all the joy in my life so that I didn’t have to feel the way I do right now.

What they see is not who I am. It’s the mask that they love, the mask that’s suffocating me.

It takes energy to be with him, and I feel like I’m scraping the bottom of my resources.

Julian isn’t Vivaldi for me. He doesn’t captivate me. He’s not my safe place.