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?

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

“I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason . . . try not doing it.”

“I think you’ve figured out how to change yourself to make other people happy. I’ve seen you tailor your facial expressions, your actions, even what you say, to be what you think I prefer. And now, I suspect, you’re trying, unconsciously perhaps, to change your music to be what people like. But that’s impossible, Anna. Because it’s art. You can’t please everyone. The second you change it so one person likes it, you’ll lose someone who liked it the way it was before. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing as you go in circles? You have to learn how to listen to yourself again, to be yourself.”

For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then? I have to make a change. I have to do something and take control of this situation, or I’ll be stuck in this hell forever.

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.

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

“People are—they’re so confusing. Sometimes, if I think about things long enough and hard enough, I can understand them. But other times, no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible.”

I let the tears fall. I cry for the girl I used to be. I cry for me. It’s a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn’t feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder.

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

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.

He advances toward me, and my breath catches. The way he walks, like he’s going somewhere important, appeals to me. Because he’s coming to me.

With one last smile at me and a silent glance at my dad, he leaves, and I’m alone with my dad. It feels like good-bye as I sit there with him. I hold his hand. I look at his sleeping face, which looks like him, but not him. I remember our times together. He used to be an engineer at an international semiconductor company and was out of the country for most of my childhood, but he always tried to be there for the big moments in my life—opening concerts, graduation, et cetera. He made an effort to be there for small moments, too, even though he was gone so often, and looking back, those were more important. He wanted to know what I was interested in. He always wanted to see me when he came home. He quietly checked up on me when I got in trouble with my mom and often defended me, even though he was scared of her, too. I miss his full-bodied laugh. I miss his dry humor. I miss his crotchety stubbornness. I am afraid, very afraid, that those parts of him, the parts that differentiate him from everyone else, the essential parts of him, are gone forever.

It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding. That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt.

“Us. You’re breaking my heart, Anna.” I can’t bear the sadness in his eyes, so I look down at my feet and do my best not to make a sound as my tears fall. I hate that I’m hurting the person I love. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate how trapped I am in my life. There’s no winning for me. I’ll never be able to please everyone.

Majestic cliffs plummet sharply to the earth in shades of sunrise, greater than time, greater than man. I feel minuscule in the best of ways. My problems seem insignificant; my pain, trivial.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “I’m so sorry for what I did. It’s because I have trouble speaking up, especially in public, and especially when my family is involved. I know that’s a horrible excuse, but it’s true. I’m determined to change, though. I promise you that I’ll never do something like that again where you’re concerned—if I have the chance. I’ll draw a line around you, and I’ll protect you and stand up for you and speak up for you when it’s right. I’ll keep you safe. And I’ll do the same for me. Because I matter, too.”

Every day in that house is hell for me, watching my dad suffer, watching him hate his life, and keeping him alive anyway. It destroyed me bit by bit until there was almost nothing I wanted to live for. I’ve been swallowed up in sadness and pain and hopelessness and every different kind of self-hatred that exists. But you’ve been my bright spot. You’ve pulled me through. The only good thing this broken heart of mine can feel is love for you.”

Good people don’t feel that way about taking care of the people they love. It should make me feel . . . happy, purposeful, things like that.”

But I guess that’s how it must be when someone’s standards are so impossibly high and their capacity for empathy so limited. They are cruel to others, and cruelest to themself.