I could stay up all night writing just to not face the idea of him. The fact of him is unavoidable and once it – him – has presented itself I calm, suddenly, because I’m always calm in a storm. I’ve weathered all sorts of crises with an even pulse and a sane mind. Crazy doesn’t scare me. Scars don’t bother me. But the idea of him . . . pricks me, uncomfortably. I can’t define anything about either of us when we’re in the same room except that he is a heartless bastard, who is madly in love with me, and it isn’t glamorous and I never thought it would be.
I, who value kindness above all else.