You saw me before I saw you. You had that look in your eyes, as if you wanted something. Wanted it for a long time.

The deep blue of your eyes had secrets. I wanted them.

You saw me before I saw you. You had that look in your eyes, as if you wanted something. Wanted it for a long time.

But what else can I do, other than to plead with you like this? Other than to write down my story, our story, to show you that what you've done . . . to make you realize that what you did wasn't fair, wasn't right.

Everyone wanted answers I wasn't ready to give.

You won't be able to hurt me, or touch me.

You told me once of the plants that lie dormant through the drought, that wait, half-dead, deep in the earth. The plants that wait for the rain. You said they'd wait for years, if they had to; that they'd almost kill themselves before they grew again. But as soon as those first drops of water fall, those plants begin to stretch and spread their roots. They travel up through the soil and sand to reach the surface. There's a chance for them again.