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I was struck by the truth that real friends, as rare as they were, could be recognized in how they encouraged us—either via words or actions—to be the best versions, the strongest versions of ourselves. And when we couldn’t be strong, they were there to pick us up and hold us together.
“Whoever did this is a fucking murderer,” I rumbled. “How could they?” Sam wasn’t laughing now. “Yep, a book murderer, and if we find them, I’ll help you bury the damn body.”
I closed my eyes and absorbed those words. “I think that’s why I love the stories with villains instead of heroes as the main characters,” I whispered. “Heroes are limited because they always have to do the right thing. But villains aren’t restricted by their moral compasses. They will do literally anything and destroy anyone who tried to hurt those they love. I think, deep down, I’ve always considered myself a villain. In that way.”