It was amazing how much a person’s life could progress in seven years, if given the chance.

I would be the promise she didn’t get to realize.

now I am realizing that testifying would carry other significance as well:

The things I was used to being validated for—intelligence, talent, eyes—I took for granted and barely even registered compliments about them. The kind of validation I wanted and fantasized about was the kind I hadn’t yet heard: that I was magnetic, hot, that someone couldn’t stop thinking about wanting to be with me, touch me, fuck me.

It would mean I was necessary.

it was hard to understand exactly who I was mourning.

Picture the room you’re in right now; maybe it’s the kitchen, or maybe you’re on the train. Now picture the world outside your frame that’s just slightly out of view. Maybe it’s the next train car or the outside of your house just below the windows. Now imagine there’s a serial killer there, tracking your movements and counting down the days or hou

Maybe she’d think I was a fraud. “Oh, hi there: go fuck yourself. Am I supposed to believe you’ve been crying about me all these years? Do you light a candle on my birthday? Do you speak to me at night? Whatever. Where were you when you could have done something? You think this is all exciting now, worthy of your time, but where were you when I was

much like my sense of self, held together by a golden ratio of chance and protracted effort.