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.

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 just need to know something about him that will make me believe that there's even a sliver of a chance that his particles have a longing to go in a certain direction and only need a nudge.