The worst feeling has been eating me up all week, ever since I saw S smiling and laughing with Henry. It's not that I'm anything but happy for her sake, but all I can think of is how I'm not her, how I'm still alone. I loved someone years ago and maybe that's all there is, maybe no one will ever hold my hand like that again or know what I'm thinking of just by looking at me. That fear grows slowly inside me and I just can't shake it.
What frightens me even more is knowing how mother was just like me when she was my age. She had a heart made of glass and I wonder what happened to her to make her so distant and cold. I wonder if it could happen to me too.
From her diary:
Another day passes, another austere scenery on the other side of the windows. T sleeps a lot and when he's awake I ask him about his childhood and he asks me about mine. We have so much in common, both having escaped from something we never called home, but he's still evolving each day and I envy him for it. I keep thinking that what if these are the best times of our lives, what if this is the adventure I will forever be comparing everything else to. The thought lingers in my mind as I try to sleep, and sometimes I dream about having to say goodbye for the very last time. It's summer and he's standing there in the evening light, looking at me with those eyes, not saying a word. We both know that nothing will ever be the same again, that nothing can ever be better. And then I wake up.