Tôi đã lớn lên được xác định bởi sự tuyệt vọng, không thể phủ nhận này, ‘không thể thở được’ bên trong bản thân và tôi sợ rằng chẩn đoán là gây tử vong.
I force my eyes upward and look at Mia for the first time. She’s still beautiful. Not in an obvious Vanessa LeGrande or Bryn Shraeder kind of way. In a quiet way that’s always been devastating to me. Her hair, long and dark, is down now, swimming damply against her bare shoulders, which are still milky white and covered with the constellation of freckles that I used to kiss. The scar on her left shoulder, the one that used to be an angry red weld is silvery pink now. Almost like the latest rage in tattoo accessories. Almost pretty.
Gayle Forman, Where She Went