I’d never cared what anyone thought of me before. Everyone already considered me odd, but I’d accepted my fate even before I reached adulthood. I wasn’t athletic enough, or competitive enough, or manly enough; I was too bookish, too quiet, too awkward. And that was fine, really. Or, if not fine, at least tolerable. Survivable. Before Griffin had come along, I’d been living inside a photograph: just a facsimile of life, without either color or depth. Could I go back to it, now that I had seen the alternative?
