I Was Worn Out, Broken: He Had

But She Wouldn't. I Knew That Already. My Mother And I Had An Understanding: We Worked Together To Be As Much In Control Of Our Shared World As Possible. I Was Suposed To Be Her Other Half, Carrying My Share Of The Weight. In The Last Few Weeks, I'd Tried To Shed It, And Doing So Sent Everything Off Kilter. So Of Course She Would Pull Me Tighter, Keeping Me In My Place, Because Doing So Meant She Would Always Be Sure, Somehow, Of Her Own.

All I'd Wanted For So Long Was For Someone To Explain Everything That Had Happened To Me In This Same Way. To Label It Neatly On A Page: This Leads To This Leads To This.

This Is The Problem With Dealing With Someone Who Is Actually A Good Listener. They Don’t Jump In On Your Sentences, Saving You From Actually Finishing Them, Or Talk Over You, Allowing What You Do Manage To Get Out To Be Lost Or Altered In Transit. Instead, They Wait, So You Have To Keep Going.

So I Left Him There Alone To Watch History Repeat The Same Events Retold Again And Again On His Own.

It Was A Basic Plot In Any Number Of Her Books: Girl Strikes Out, Makes Good, Finds Love, Gets Revenge. In That Order. The Making Good And Striking Out Part I Liked. The Rest Would Just Be Bonus.