My breath catches when I reach the last page, the drawing of me. The girl I'm staring at is not me, but she is me. Her large eyes are focused away from the viewer, but there's something in them I don't immediately recognize: hope. Her posture looks straighter than mine, like she's stronger, more resilient.

I need it [the sketch of me] to remind myself that I can be this girl, that this girl is inside of me. This hopeful, strong person.

FrozenRobot of all people should know that there is nothing beautiful or endearing or glamorous about sadness. Sadness is only ugly, and anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t get it. I think what he means to say is that he and I are ugly in the same way and there's something familiar, comfortable, about that. Comfortable is different from beautiful.

Hope is beautiful.

I think about his drawing of me. That girl he drew, she was beautiful. That girl wasn't a gray sky. She had hope. Hope is beautiful.

I wonder if we feel those transformations, if we can sense our kinetic energy fizzling away into nothingness. I wonder if we hear it, if it sounds like the symphony or if it sounds like screaming.

I will do my best to become the girl from Roman's drawing. The girl with the bright eyes. The girl with hope.

Recently, I've become so much more aware of the things we do that keep us alive—our inhales, our exhales, our heartbeats

It sounds to me like you are looking for reasons to live.