I am a child. I am two feet tall, and asking if she loves me.

How is it I know this little about the boy who says he loves me -- the boy whose real name is powerful enough to keep us alive in a train car full of enemies?

What's this about flashing underwear?" says Uriah, sidestepping a bunk. "Whatever it is, I'm in.

It isn't the height that scares me - the height makes me feel alive with energy, every organ and vessel and muscle in my body singing at the same pitch. Then I realize what it is. It's him. Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

I didn't realize until that moment that Dauntless initiation had taught me an important lesson: how to keep going.

I forgot my watch. Minutes or hours later, when the panic subsides, that is what I most regret. Not coming here in the first place - that seemed like an obvious choice - but my bare wrist, which makes it impossible for me to know how long I have been sitting in this room. My back aches, which is some indication, but it is not definite enough.

It happened. It was awful. You aren't perfect. That's all there is. Don't confuse your grief with guilt.