You don’t share me. You own me.

And something tells me if it matters, maybe it shouldn't be easy.

I don't know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don't want to be her anymore.

Suddenly, it's all too much. Bryn and the bump watch. Vanessa with my high school yearbook. The idea that nothing's sacred. Everything's fodder. That my life belongs to anyone but me.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to have had her company in my head—the comfort that would’ve brought.

You know, I thought about that a lot these last couple of years," She says in a choked voice. "About who was there for you. Who held your hand while you grieved for all that you'd lost?

Anything that kills hope is a sin