…She’d tumbled to confusion. Tracing welts and scars back to bright edges and shiny slices of fear made her clench. She skittered awn from such memories the way like repelled like in magnets.
“I never wanted anything enough to go get it. I was content to accept what came my way, excite it wasn’t contentment. It was more like inertia and I think — no, I know now, I’m sure — I took steps to rouse my will, to break out of my old patterns. Only now I’m afraid I’ve gone wrong, or failed.”
Chesney’s pen lifted to her lips. She chewed the pen, shrugged; it read, this letter, like a confession.
She started crumpling it, then stopped. She smoothed the note and stood. Folding the note once, she slipped it into a library book in the stack on her kitchen counter. She would return the books that afternoon, leaving the note to be carried by chance, delivered by fate. There was no name on it, and no date. Anonymous communications with strangers; to what desperate sad insignificance was she reduced?
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