The Dangerous Art of Blending In

I've squeezed as many bookcases in this tiny space as possible. Being surrounded by books and magazines makes me feel calm. It makes the room seem wrapped in a layer of protection. As if nothing or no one can get to me.

Maybe I'm not so ugly after all. Maybe no one is really ugly, and maybe no one has the right to call someone that or tell them that they are. Maybe the only real ugliness is what lives inside some people.

The truth is, it's exactly what I want, but I'm so scared of wanting it and even more scared of actually having it.

The person who was supposed to love me the hardest-the most unconditionally-has always wanted me gone. No matter how hard I tried to be perfect. Now, this boy-who knows all my imperfections and has seen all my hurt laid bare-wants me to stay.

Here's the deal about never being authentically loved by your parents: The most fucked-up gesture or morsel of compassion is like a warm blanket.

Maybe I’m not so ugly after all. Maybe no one is really ugly, and maybe no one has the right to call someone that or tell them that they are. Maybe the only real ugliness is what lives inside some people.

You’d think I’d be larger, but my theory is that the internal nervous energy I work so hard to conceal keeps my metabolism running on high.

This silent moment is my world.

I promise you.' He's looking right at me. 'Nothing is worth hurting you.

I run my fingers through his hair. You think you're the only one who wanted this?' And then it hits me. It's always been Henry. Always.