So finally, I decided that the best response — the safest — was none at all.

It was always late at night, when everything and everyone else was quiet, that those voices would rise like ghosts, soft and haunting, filling your mind until sleep finally came.

As if it didnt matter what was on, but instead how hard i was listening.

That first love. And the first one who breaks your heart. For me, they just happen to be the same person.

He was the closest thing I'd ever had to something, or someone, that mattered. But in the end, close didn't count. You were either in, or you weren't.

There was no short answer to this; like so much else, it was a long story. But what really makes any story real is knowing someone will hear it. And understand.

I wondered if emotions were like menstrual cycles, if you get enough women together. Give it time, and everyone was crying.