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The death of any dream deserves to be mourned, all its intricate facets touched one last time.
“If you pay attention, Claire, solutions always appear. But you have to be brave enough to see them,”
That was the funny thing about regret. It lived inside of you, shrinking down until you could almost believe it had vanished, only to have it spring up, fully formed, called forward by people who meant you no harm.
Are we who we say we are, or do we become the person others see? Do they define us by what we choose to show them, or what they see despite our best attempts to conceal it?
