I Am Selfish. I Am Brave.

I Notice, However, That Peter Only Pretends To Inject Himself—when He Presses The Plunger Down, The Fluid Runs Down His Throat, And He Wipes It Casually With A Sleeve. I Wonder What It Feels Like To Volunteer To Forget Everything.

I Laugh Shakily. ‘you’re A Little Scary, Four.’ ‘do Me A Favor,’ He Says, ‘and Don’t Call Me That.’ ‘what Should I Call You, Then?’ ‘nothing.’ He Takes His Hand From My Face. ‘yet.

No Selfishness Or Insecurity Kept Him From Seeing The Full Extent Of Her Goodness, As It So Often Does With The Rest Of Us. That Kind Of Love May Only Be Possible In Abnegation. I Do Not Know.

I Wipe My Face With My Sleeve, Laughing So Hard My Stomach Hurts. If My Entire Life Is Like This, Loud Laughter And Bold Action And The Kind Of Exhaustion You Feel After A Hard But Satisfying Day, I Will Be Content.

I Expect To Weave Through The Crowd, Dodging Elbows And Muttering "excuse Me" The Way I Always Do, But There Is No Need. Becoming Dauntless Has Made Me Noticable.