A bit of a breakthrough had come the February before, seemingly out of the blue. She reasoned with herself in the backseat on the truck ride home. I can open myself up to romance after I fix my fucked up brain. It wouldn’t be fair to my partner to have to deal with all of that. When I’m cured, I’ll be ready.
But that’s not really how it worked. By that logic, she should have already pushed her family away, and what remained of her friends, to make things easier on them. She hadn’t yet, for better or worse, she wasn’t sure. And she would never really fix herself.
So by those means, her logic against romance was very, very flawed.
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