Today was difficult, she never said. But I could see it in her eyes, in the awkward jerky movements of her hands as she tried to lock the door and in the cautious way she dumped her bag on the couch like she knew I was watching her.

“Well? How’d it go?”

“Bad.” She muttered and buried her face in her hands as she sat down on her bed.

I looked at the refilled mug of coffee on her study table, at the scattered paper everywhere, on the post-its by the door and on the wet spot on the rug beneath me. She was in a hurry that morning, judging by––well, everything.

“It’s okay.” I said. “We need tragedies.”

She looked up from her carefully arranged pose and gave me an incredulous look.

I shrugged. “Something I read. It says it makes us real. And we can’t experience the power of healing if we’ve never been broken.”

But as that silent evening wore on and the last words I spoke rang inside our cold apartment, I can’t help but wonder if I was saying those words to her or to myself. And if I was, I wondered if we were thinking the same thing–if all we are ever going to be is broken.