Her vulnerability slams me in the chest. She’s as fragile as spun glass. She can run, and as weak as she is, she can take blow after blow. But her feelings—they’re so tender, so easily bruised. She allows herself to be crushed, over and over again. Is it masochism? Whatever, it’s the irony of my life. The only person whose feelings I care about, and she’s the equivalent of an emotional eggshell.
