So I left him there alone to watch history repeat the same events retold again and again on his own.

My agent is so totally honest, which is just what every writer needs. She won't let me sell a crappy book, even if I want to.

What you need, what you deserve, is a guy who adores you for what you are. Who doesn't see you as a project, but a prize. you know?

He's getting dumped. And he doesn't even know it yet. He's probably eating a cheeseburger or flossing or picking up his dry cleaning, and he has no idea. No inkling.

There was something so heavy about the burden of history, of the past. I wasn't sure I had it in me to keep looking back.

It was like discovering that some part of you wasn't yours at all. And it made me wonder what else I couldn't claim.

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.