You didn't fail. You just opted out. There's a difference.

Now, now," my father said. "Let's just get the bags." This was typical. My father, the lone male in our estrogen-heavy household, had always dealt with any kind of emotional situation or conflict by doing something concrete and specific. Discussion of cramps and heavy flow at the breakfast table? He was up and out the door to change oil on one of our cars. Coming home in tears for reasons you just didn't want to discuss? He'd go make you a grilled cheese, which he'd probably end up eating. Family crisis brewing in a public place? Bags. Get the bags.

Your actions is like a raindrop; it falls into the pond making ripples and then its over.

So much had happened that morning. Yet it was this image, this moment, that i kept going back to hours later, after we'd made it safely to the walkway and gone our separate ways to classes. How it felt to have the world moving beneath me, a hand gripping mine, knowing if i fell, at least i wouldn't do it alone.

I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.

Even if you do make tons of new friends,” I told him, “try not to forget where you came from, okay?

Maybe we were all destined to just keep doing the same stupid things, over and over again, never really learning a single thing.