The Way I Used to Be

“He's not the hero and he's not the enemy and he's not a god. He's just a boy. And I'm just a girl, a girl who needs to pick up her own pieces and put them back together herself.”

“I don't know who I am right now. But I know who I'm not. And I like that.”

“I hate that just because you happen to be good at something,people automatically think that's what makes you happy,but it's not really like that, you know? It's not that simple.”

“All you have to do is act like you’re normal and okay, and people start treating you that way.”

“Maybe He'll get what he deserves. Maybe Not. Maybe I'll never find it in my heart to forgive him. And maybe there's nothing wrong with that,either. All those maybes swimming around my head make me think that "maybe" could just be another word for hope.”

“Because whatever he thinks I am, I'm not. And whatever he thinks my body is, it isn't. My Body is a torture chamber. It's a fucking crime scene.”

“And I’m terrified he’ll see through the tough iceberg layer, and he’ll discover not a soft, sweet girl, but an ugly fucking disaster underneath.”

“I feel these forbidden thoughts creep in sometimes without warning. Slow thoughts that always start quietly, like whispers you're not even sure you're hearing. And then they get louder and louder until they become every sound in the entire world. Thoughts that can't be undone. Would anyone care? Would anyone even fucking notice? What if one day I just wasn't here anymore? What if one day it all just stopped? What if? What if? What if?”

“. And I really wonder how people get to be normal like this. How they just seem to know what to say and do, automatically.”

“All these maybes swimming around my head make me think that "maybe" could just be another word for hope.”

“No, can’t cry. Because there’s nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream. A bad dream. A nightmare. Not real. Not real. Not real. That’s what I keep thinking: NotRealNotRealNotReal. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a mantra. Like a prayer.”

“I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door,breathing oddly,like,unevenly. But,no,it's not him just breathing,I realize slowly. He's crying. And I kneel there on the other side of the door that might as well be the other side of the galaxy,feeling so empty,so dead inside.”

“Because, in my heart, I know, I’m not who he thinks I am. Not even close. And he’s not who I want him to be, either.”

“I don’t know how long I lay there afterward, telling myself: squeeze your eyelids tight, just try to forget. Try to ignore all the things that didn’t feel right, all the things that felt like they would never feel right again.”

“I don’t know a lot of things. I don’t know why I didn’t hear the door click. Why I didn’t lock the damn door to begin with. Or why it didn’t register that something was wrong, so mercilessy wrong when I felt the mattress shift under his weight. Why I didn’t scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between my sheets. Or why I didn’t to try to fight him when I still stood a chance.”

“His hands, his arms, can hold the pieces in place temporarily, maybe even for a long time, but he can never truly put them back together. That's not his job. He's not the hero and he's not the enemy and he's not a god. He's just a boy. And I'm just a girl, a girl who needs to pick up her own pieces and put them back together herself.”

“Why do I feel like, sometimes, I have no one in the entire world who knows me in even the slightest, most insignificant way?”

“There's a brief moment of silence for what we've lost. And in that moment, it ends. Finally. The past of us officially comes to an end.”

“I'm scared. Really scared he's about to leave me. And more scared because I don't want him to.”

“I think about how they say when most people get into car accidents, it's less than one mile from their home. Maybe that's because everything's so familiar, you stop paying attention. You don't notice the one thing that's different or wrong or off or dangerous. And I think about how maybe that's what just happened to me. (page 10)”

“I watch as his body melts down to the floor and I start to understand something too. That this isn't all about me. This thing, it touches everyone. (page 359)”

“So as I stare at the ceiling, I’m thinking: I must have some serious issues if I’m dreaming like that. Horrible stuff like that. About Kevin. Kevin. Because Kevin is my brother’s best friend, practically my brother. My parents love him like everyone else does, even me. And Kevin would never… could never. Not possible.”

“I close my eyes again, but it’s all I can see, all I can feel, all I can hear. His skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, muscles stretching, bones cracking, body breaking, me getting weaker, fading. These things. It’s all there is.”

“But I'm not her anymore. I don't even want to be her anymore. That girl was so naive and stupid--the kind of girl who could let something like this happen to her.”

“I try to stand without looking like everything is broken.”

“But I'm not her anymore. I don't even want to be her anymore. That girl who was so naive and stupid -- the kind of girl who could let something like this happen to her. (page 7)”

“And around the time the moon and sun are coexisting in the sky, turning the room inside out with that eerie, yet calming pale glow, I have a terrible thought: I like him. I really, really like him. Like, love-like him. Like, with my metaphorical heart. Like, if I had an x-ray, it would show an arrow lodged right into the center of that bloody, bleeding mass of muscle in my chest. And I know, somehow, that things have changed between us.”

“I went to bed happy. I went to bed thinking of him. But the next thing I remember is waking up to him climbing on top of me, putting his hand over my mouth, whispering shutupshutupshutup. And everything happening so fast. If it could be all a dream, just a dream that I could wake up from, then I would still be safe in my bed. That would make so much more sense. And nothing will be wrong. Nothing will be different. I’ll just be in my bed and nothing bad will ever have to happen there.”

“I try to stand without looking like everything is broken. I kick the Tuesdays under the bed so she won’t find them and wonder. I take my robe. Take the tie. And as I look back at my mother, watching her collect the soiled sheets in her arms, the evidence, I know somehow if it’s not now, it has to be never. Because he was right. No one would ever believe me. Of course they wouldn’t. Not ever.”