The differences between them were loud, nearly deafening. Jenny, with her whiskey breath and smudged eyeliner, had been touched by someone else, shaped and formed by him. She was no longer the other half of Hazel’s whole—instead, her own throbbing and vibrant thing. Come back, Hazel wanted to beg, though she knew it was fruitless. She was no longer the closest thing to her sister. They were no longer an us, but rather two separate people, growing at two separate paces, one awake and blazing, the other formless and grasping.
