“Why do they treat you like that?” she asked.
“Like what?” I pretended not to know what she meant.
“Why do they treat you like you’re glass?”
“Because they’re afraid that I’ll break again.” I wish she would stop asking questions but I knew she wouldn’t-because I wouldn’t.
“Will you?” her eyes were searching, looking for answers.
“No, we’re not the same girl as we used to be.”

“How did you get those scars?” Her questions felt like knives, opening the skin anew, exposing the raised pink ribbons to the raw air.
“I fell in love, then he fell out, and then I was shattered.” I could not tell if I was crying, I’ve cried so much I think I’ve become numb to it. Maybe not.
“Then how can I stay whole?” she quivered.
I laughed because the answer was so, so terribly simple,
“Don’t choose him. Anyone but him.”