She was just a shell of her former self, functioning and talking but hardly alive.
I think whenever a writer is really enjoying themselves and liking what they are doing, that shows on the page.
That was the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They spoke another language, and the words we knew always fell short of what we wanted them to say.
We can all be beautiful girls.
It took a lot of work to be perfect.
I mean, to me, freaking out is different. More of a running away, not telling anyone what's wrong, slowly simmering until you burst kind of thing.