I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City; believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.

Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish

Things would get difficult again. But that was okay too. The bravery was in moving forward, no matter what.

I'm gone, lost, floating away into nothingness like I am in my dream, but this time it's a good feeling - like soaring, like being totally free, and I can feel the impression of his fingers everywhere that they touch, and I think of stars streaking through the sky and leaving burning trails behind them, and in that moment - however long it lasts, seconds, minutes, days - while he's saying my name into my mouth and I'm breathing into him, I realize this, right here, is the first and only time I've ever been kissed in my life.

Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.

The worst is knowing I can't tell anybody what's happening -or what's happened- to me. Not even my mom.

Like I've been sketched by an amateur artist: if you don't look too closely, it's all right, but start focusing and all the smudges and mistakes become really obvious.