But Edward doesn’t even flinch; it’s as if he’s reading the text of me with some magic internal Rosetta stone that makes him understand what I say is not what I mean at all.

My high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Inverholl, once had me take an aptitude test to figure out my future. The number one job recommendation for my set of skills was an air traffic accident investigator, of which there are fewer than fifty in the world. The number two job was a museum curator for Chinese-American studies. The number three job was a circus clown.

We are all psychic to a degree. How many times do you walk into a room and just know there’s tension in there? How many times have you thought about an old friend, and then she calls? Or had a dream about your grandma and you wake up and find the lost earring you inherited from her? It’s like making a psychic telephone call: you send energy into the universe, and it comes back to you.

You can blame your ugliness for keeping people at bay, when in reality you’re crippled by the thought of letting another person close enough to popentially scar you even more deeply. You can tell yourself that it’s safer to love someone who will never really love you back, because you can’t lose someone you never had.

This must be what an addict feels like, I think,
trying to fight the pull of one last, quick read. My fingers itch toward the binding, and finally, with a sigh of regret, I just grab the book and open it, hungrily reading the story.

The crisis might be what sticks in my mind, but the in-between moments are the ones I would not have missed for the world.

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