It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

Love unrequited is violent. He loves you so much that he's turned it into hate.

There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.

I lost everyone I loved," I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, "The day I met you.

We writers are resilient souls.

Her mind is a bird that's trapped inside her skull, flapping and thrashing, never breaking free.

Tell me about yourself." "Myself?" He looks confused. "Yes," I say, patting the mattress. "You know all there is to know," he says, sitting beside me. "Not true," I say. "Where were you born? What's your favourite season? Anything." "Here. Florida," he says. "I remember a woman in a red dress with curly brown hair. Maybe she was my mother, I'm not sure. And summer. What about you?" The last part is said with a smile. He smiles so infrequently that I consider each one a trophy.