It was wrong. But it was worth it.

But it was smell that carried memory.

She thought she was independent and strong, but she got one small taste of love and she was hungrier than anyone. She was ravenous.

She went around with a broken heart, and she wasn't sure who'd broken it. She thought it was herself, mostly.

She liked the life she had. She loved habits. She craved a day with nothing in it, a long, quiet stretch of hours in the studio.

Her body was a prison, her mind was a prison. Her memories were a prison. The people she loved. She couldn't get away from the hurt of them. She could leave Eric, walk out of her apartment, walk forever if she liked, but she couldn't escape what really hurt. Tonight even the sky felt like a prison.

I allowed myself to suffer how jarringly destructive the present feels and how fragile the past.