Family was even a bigger word than I imagined, wide and without limitations, if you allowed it, defying easy definition. You had family that was supposed to be family and wasn't, family that wasn't family but was, halves becoming whole, wholes splitting into two; it was possible to lack whole, honest love and connection from family in lead roles, yet to be filled to abundance by the unexpected supporting players.

... But then again, a person could turn ugly. Their actual look could change when their actions were repulsive.

You were a stone wall, a fort in high, unreachable trees, an island, my own island, that no boat could reach.

To an untrained eye, need and love were as easily mistaken for each other as the real master's painting and a forgery.

Maybe I was being too picky. Maybe I didn't want to be close to anyone. Maybe I'd just be the type who couldn't feel love all the way or something. I couldn't tell what was wrong, but what was wrong was that it just wasn't right.

Love can come when you're already who you are, when you're filled with you. Not when you look to someone else to fill the empty space.

You could care enough to keep a secret, but you could care enough to tell one, too.