Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.
It’s not the face, but the expressions on it. It’s not the voice, but what you say. It’s not how you look in that body, but the thing you do with it. You are beautiful.
Is my mom all right? She’s perfectly fine. don’t worry, Bella, I have no quarrel with her. Unless you didn’t come alone, of course. Light, amused. I’m alone. I’d never been more alone in my entire life.
