I wish I had done it the other way: spoken to my sister, told her how sorry I am. Grieved my family the way I want to — the way I would if I weren’t forever twisted, defunct. Maybe even let Dr. Tessler try to fix me.

But instead, I am on a bus, with nothing but my old clothes and the book I’ve taken, moving away from my past at fifty-five miles per hour. I won’t read the book just yet. Instead I will allow myself to stay where I have become comfortable, just me alone with all the things I am feeling below the surface, afraid to rise out of it or sink farther down. I still can’t let the feelings out, or I will fall apart, splintering into millions of pieces. Maybe I’ll never be able to let them out. And maybe the Purgatorio will ever remain tucked under one arm, unopened. After all, how can I know just now what will happen, who I will become? I have ten hours ahead of me before my ticket’s up, and then I’ll have to find another way. But I will — I will always find some other way.

Maybe one day, I’ll have the life I left behind. Maybe I’ll open an art studio in California, sketch portraits by the waves, live in a modest little house and walk barefoot to work, use the one thing I’m good at to take me somewhere better. Maybe I won’t be Abby or Addie there, but someone else entirely, someone bold and capable and strong.

Maybe I’ll turn into someone I can be proud of, someday.

Maybe someday, I’ll fall in love again.

Maybe I’ll have a family. And if I do, I will open my heart to them without fear for myself. I will teach them to give back to the world. I’ll show them how loved they are and I’ll live in every moment of all of the pain that comes along with loving.

I promise myself that I’ll do all of these things someday.

One thing: after this, no more hiding. I’ll never hide again.

But for now, I’ll just sit on this bus, and I’ll watch the Vermont mountains rush by, and I’ll dream.