She ached so badly to be held it felt like a sickness had invaded her muscles and bones. As usual, her own arms provided little comfort.

This crusade to fix herself was ending right now. She wasn't broken. She saw and interacted with the world in a different way, but that was her. She could change her actions, change her words, change her appearance, but she couldn't change the root of herself. At her core, she would always be autistic. People called it a disorder, but it didn't feel like one. To her, it was simply the way she was.

She didn’t know how to be semi-interested in something. She was either indifferent . . . or obsessed.

She had a disorder, but it didn’t define her. She was Stella. She was a unique person.