She was walking through the shelves and imagining herself there one day, one spine tucked alongside all the others, fitting in perfectly.
The way Henry talks about him is a physical feat, drifting up in the corners with fondness but sagging in the middle under the weight.
She still listens, and she tries, and she wants us to be happy. But I don't know if she has it in her anymore to be a part of anyone's happiness.
