It's funny how figuring out the gravitational pull of a random object can make you feel more grounded.

Something inside me clicks. It's like I've spent my whole life fiddling with a complicated combination only to discover I was toying with the wrong lock. And now, the vault inside of me that contains all my secrets is swinging open and I feel that rush of blood swell in my chest.

I don't know how to describe it, but the more I stare at him, the more I see his grief wrapped around him like shackles he can never take off.

I know humans have been kissing since the history of time, but right now, in this very moment, it feels like kissing is a secret that only Roman and I know about.

Mama hugs me
and I hold her back.
Sometimes all you can do is
hold on.

Mama says the word cake like it's just an ordinary food
which is strange since everyone knows that cakes are
made of magic.

I once read in my physics book that the universe begs to be observed, that energy travels and transfers when people pay attention. Maybe that's what love really boils down to -- having someone who cares enough to pay attention so that you're encouraged to travel and transfer, to make your potential energy spark into kinetic energy.

I want women like Aunt Michelle
to understand
that it is not only women who look like them
are free
who think
and care about other women.

We're suicidal, not innumerate.

Maybe he's one of those people who were built for caring.

FrozenRobot of all people should know that there is nothing beautiful or endearing or glamorous about sadness. Sadness is only ugly, and anyone who thinks otherwise doesn't get it. I think what he means to say is that he and I are ugly in the same way and there's something familiar, comfortable, about that. Comfortable is different from beautiful.

Yes, I'm broken. And yes, he's broken. But the more we talk about it, the more we share our sadness, the more I start to believe that there could be a chance to fix us, a chance that we could save each other.

I know that might never happen, but I have this daydream where, a couple of years from now, when I'm gone and Mike misses me, he reaches for the comic book, and as he reads it, he feels better. He feels safe. He knows he can beat his demons in exactly the way I couldn't.

I think he's looking for comfort, but I don't have any to give.

I will do my best to become the girl from Roman's drawing. The girl with the bright eyes. The girl with hope.

My breath catches when I reach the last page, the drawing of me. The girl I'm staring at is not me, but she is me. Her large eyes are focused away from the viewer, but there's something in them I don't immediately recognize: hope. Her posture looks straighter than mine, like she's stronger, more resilient.

People are funny. The longer you are around them, the more you start to realize that everyone makes the same motions over and over again. We all want to believe that every day is different, that every day we change, but really, it seems that certain things are coded into us from the very beginning.

I take a breath and notice the air has changed flavor from campfire smoke to sweet vanilla and there's a soft sound in my head that I don't quite recognize but reminds me of pennies being tossed into a foundation. The pitter-patter of wishes, desperate wishes.

I find myself smiling. My cheek muscles feel different -- they're like a room that hasn't seen light in years that suddenly had all the blinds pulled open and the sun is beaming in at full volume. And I can't help myself, my smile keeps stretching, wider and wider.

Those men are now fighting against the government's army, and the people who live in the town don't know whose side to choose. They only want the violence to stop. Nobody knows which side is right anymore.