From the first time you laughed with me, all those months, and all those stories,” Joe said quietly. “They were all you, to me. All of them were you.

There's nothing that says you can't change." "Not even if it changes everything else?" I shook my head. "Not even then.

Sometimes when things break, you can hold them together for a while with string or glue or tape. Sometimes, nothing will hold what’s broken, and the pieces fly all over, and though you think you might be able to find them all again, one or two will always be missing. I flew apart. I broke. I shattered like a crystal vase dropped on a concrete floor, and pieces of me scattered all over. Some of them I was glad to see go. Some I never wanted to see again.

He was quiet. I said nothing, hoping that maybe, for once, he'd stop pretenting he was okay. Then I could, too. That we could both forget the roles that had so long bound us.

Does madness bring creativity? Or does creativity cause madness? Can an artist create without the ups so high and the downs so low?

If I'd known it was going to be the last time he'd ever hold me, I'd have paid better attention.

You know what they say. Best revenge is looking good, right?