And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. Or convince others-the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. Hello My name is Sara and I live, love and breathe YA. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. Meet Sara Barnard, author of Beautiful Broken Things, a Zoella Book Club choice and one of this summer's hottest new books. “He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy.
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