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The anger and fury and heat and need—years of it leading to this moment when we finally knew what we were and who we lived for. Red. Out of all the colors, I liked red the best.
“Our life is a series of plans,” she finally said. “Days, weeks, months, years . . . And then, there are moments. Moments you don’t see coming and you don’t plan, but everything you need, all the things you want to feel, are in that moment.”
“People come together, and for a tiny space of time,” she went on, “it’s beautiful and raw, because you can’t think and you don’t want to. You just feel.” She paused and then continued. “The moments are what we remember.”
But there was so much more than that between us. Buried in the cracks of all the broken things, where the words were always true and days were too long without him.
When no one else could make the world look like he could, and even after years, in the quiet parts of my mind, I missed the feel of his eyes on me.
At a certain point, I started wondering—did I behave the way I did because I could? Or did I behave the way I did because it was the only thing keeping me alive in that house? Because eleven-year-olds shouldn’t be thinking about how to end their lives.
