“I considered how he might feel when he saw me. So much of my happiness depended on his expression. Would he frown or smile? If the former, I would dance on eggshells of the evening and try to please him like there was a gun to my head. The latter, I would be happy but know that it wouldn't last, would clutch the happiness like it was a bird in my hands until it suffocated. And he would tell me that it was my fault, that I killed the bird, but he would have been the one who put it there, placed his hand over mind, and squeezed.”
―
Eliza Moss,
What It's Like in Words