She didn’t see me looking at her because she was no longer there. She hadn’t physically left, but even with all the upheaval and movement around her, she was perfectly still—emotionless. I looked at her face and posture, and I didn’t have to see her eyes to know. She was me. I was transported right back to being fifteen or sixteen, sitting in a room full of crying teenage girls sharing horrible stories that I could never ever repeat, because I never allowed myself to confront the truths of what had happened to me. I would find a place to retreat in my mind, careful not to be so tuned out that
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