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It’s like losing one of my lungs, she once told me. I don’t think I’ll ever breathe right again.
Most of those years, we shared what felt like an endless conversation—a rapid-fire back-and-forth with no need for hello or goodbye or small talk. We’d just pick up at whatever random place we’d left off the last time we talked.
A dozen snowflakes hit the road and all common sense pours directly out of drivers’ brains.
I take a sharp breath and look at my fellow travelers with new wariness. Someone in this car is lying.
It’s damn hard to fall apart when you’re busy being steady for somebody else.
“I’m fine,” I say. I learned after Phoebe that if you say it enough, people believe you. Say it even more, and you’ll believe it yourself.
numbness is a gift. It keeps us moving and helps us to survive the things that feel unsurvivable.
Losing Phoebe taught me that when your world falls to pieces, your brain will not keep you moving. Your brain will shut down to a low static hum. Your heart will tear itself in half and ache until you’re sure you’ll die. Until some part of you wishes you could.
It’s your instincts that will keep you alive.
“Because sometimes it is easier to force strength for others than to allow ourselves to feel weak and hurt.”
“I think that’s what grief does. It reminds us that we are small. That we are not in control.”
