I think of me and Melanie when we were younger, on the high dive at the pool in Mexico. We would always hold hands as we jumped, but by the time we swam back up to the surface, we'd have let go. No matter how we tried, once we started swimming, we always let go. But after we bobbed to the surface, we'd climb out of the pool, clamber up the high-dive ladder, clasp hands, and do it again. We're swimming separately now. I get that. Maybe it's just what you have to do to keep above water. But who knows? Maybe one day, we'll climb out, grab hands, and jumo again.

I want to undo this. To make it right. But I have no idea how. I don't seem to know how to open up to people without getting the door slammed in my face. So I do nothing.

He gives me a little shrug, like, of course, why else? And at this point, I really have no right to be surprised by people's capacity for kindness and generosity, but still, I am. I'm floored every time.

And the voice grows stronger and stronger, and it’s my voice this time and it’s asking a question: How does she know?

I'm not sure this is a world I belong in anymore. I'm not sure that I want to wake up.

There’s a piece of lead where my heart should beat Doctor said too dangerous to take out You’d better just leave it be Body grew back around it, a miracle, praise be Now, if only I could get through airport security “bullet

Concert' doesn’t mean standing up like a target in front of thousands of strangers. It means coming together. It means harmony.