Does it really matter if I choose the bus over a BMW, and generic over Gucci? Because the car, the wardrobe, the zip code-those are just nouns, things that are fun to have around, sure, but in the end, they have nothing to do with the real me. Nothing to do with who I really am.

You can't go back, Ever. You can't change the past. It just is." I squint, having no idea what she's talking about. But just as I start to ask,she shakes her head and says, "This is our destiny. Not yours.

Because if you're gonna make someone choose, then you shouldn't be surprised when they don't choose you.

Aw, now look at that, you're being sarcastic, aren't you?

I swear he's just so freaking smoldering, you have to see him." She shakes her head, annoyed that I can't join in on the fun. "He's like combustible!

And I start to say, no. Start to ask him to please just take it off and put it away. Start to explain how it holds far too many memories for me. But then I remember what Damen said once about memories - that they're haunting things. And because I refuse to be haunted by mine - I just take a deep breath and smile when I say, "You know, I think it looks really good on you. You should defiantly keep it.

What if it can't be worked out? What if I'm—what if I'm broken for good?