I’m wondering if perhaps the familiarity they’re sharing now is really just a relic.

Maybe they were angry at me for being there, angry that this was happening at all and that people were allowed to come see it. This wasn’t my place. This was a family matter. And why was I here now instead of being there then?

all thought we had but world enough and time to screw up, fuck up, cheat, and mistreat each other and still have it turn out okay in the end. It had to, right?

In my more narcissistic fantasies, I wondered if perhaps her parents might look at me as a shadow daughter.

it was hard to understand exactly who I was mourning.

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

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

The scales tipping toward more important moments lived among other people in other places in other rooms far away from each other.

“Don’t compare your insides to someone else’s outsides.”