Emma started writing her book on a Tuesday morning.
She sat at her desk with a blank document on her laptop and no idea how to begin. How do you write about the ways you've hurt people? How do you admit your own complicity without making excuses?
She started with a memory. A moment where she'd known something was wrong and said nothing.
It was the day Tyler first asked her for money. She'd known then that something was off about his story. She'd known because she recognized the panic in his voice. The desperation. The lie wrapped in truth.
But she'd believed him anyway. Or maybe she'd chosen to believe him because believing him meant she could be the hero of the story.
Emma wrote that down. She kept writing.
Hours passed. Her fingers hurt. Her back ached. But she couldn't stop.
She
