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“I told you, everyone.” Her cheerful expression has turned bored, and I put my chin in the palms of my hands. “I shouldn’t even bother lying to you, right?”

“Don’t even try.” Her honesty is refreshing and something I am holding onto until they come out with news about Emin. In Bosnia, you’ll find kind people who will do anything to help you. Bosnian people will give their last shirt to keep their neighbor warm, and don’t get me started on family or friends. For them, my people would run through fire.

But they will also be brutally honest and tell you that you are talking out of your ass if you are wrong.

Just like Ina is doing to me.

I lean back as well while still playing with that single strand of hair. I decide to be, partially, honest to her. “Okay. My ex hurt me, and I had to make him pay.”

“Do I need to call the police? Do you need a victim’s advocate?” Great. I made this sweet lady worry about me. I squeeze her hand to ease her worries, and it works.

“No, nothing like that. I accomplished what I wanted to accomplish, but I feel I lost more than I gained. And I am nowhere near my end destination.” It feels odd and liberating at the same time to admit that. From a very young age, I decided to be in the world I am currently in. Being ten steps ahead, not slipping up, and all that jazz. The rational side of me has been front and center since I was out of diapers, and I didn’t relent on anything.

After I lost both of my parents, I luckily had my best friend, but the yearning for something more stayed.

Along came Noa.

I did everything in my power not to fall in love with him, but I did.

“I lost you there.” Ina nudges me, and I wave my hand lazily.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Being lost in your thoughts is nothing to apologize for, unless they are bad. Bad thoughts will cloud our judgment and close the path to feel anything positive.”

“Were you a therapist in a previous life?” She laughs at my question and wiggles her finger at me.

“No, absolutely not. My husband was.” My face falls because she said was. Instinctively, I put my hand on my heart and pout.

“I am so sorry your husband died.” What else can I say? It’s probably been ten fucking years since I have had an honest conversation with a stranger. Don’t get me started on how hypocritical this might seem—a psychological mastermind doesn’t know how to behave in a regular social setting.

“Don’t be. The time I had with him was beyond precious. The best thing I ever did was marry that man. He treated me like a queen.”

“Did you fight? Did he annoy you?” I ask innocently, and apparently my question was funny.

She burst into laughter, head tipping back. "Oh, honey," she says when she finally catches her breath. "Of course we fought, and he annoyed me so much.”

“And you stayed married to him? How could you forgive him after a fight?” I’m rambling at this point, and I don’t care. I need to know this, even though our situations are probably vastly different.

“I want to clarify that neither he nor I ever did something horrible to each other.”

“Understood.”

“We communicated. When we fought, I sat down and often thought if I could truly live without him. The mere thought of losing him made me sad. Every time something nice happened, he was the first person I talked to; the same goes for when I feel sad.”

“So, you loved him?”

“Yes, and I respected him. Did we have bumps in the road? Yes. But we always got through it.”

“Oh my God, this was so much.” I sound like I just ran a marathon, all out of breath. This type of life advice can’t be taught in school; you have to live through it. Will I ever live through something like that?

Fuck. That’s way too deep to think about.

My nervous habit creeps back as I idly thread my fingers through a lock of my hair, over and over.

“You must think I am weird for talking so much and playing with my hair.” I don’t look at her as I say that since I can’t bear the embarrassment.

She puts a hand on my upper back and gently moves her hand up and down. That small motion makes me want to cry all over again.