" He’s not alone. There’s a girl in his arms, almost as tall as he is, with golden hair like summer sunshine in the dining-hall shadows. It’s Gail Johnson, and they’re kissing, lips locked, pressed against the wall, like they’re the only two people in the entire universe. No, no, no, this can’t be right. This was my dance. That was my kiss. Tears fill my eyes. A sob catches in my throat. And I flee. I run into the darkness, crying, until one of my heels catches in the slush, and I go tumbling forward onto my hands and knees. Dirty water spatters my arms, my legs, my white flowered dress. The red camellia tumbles from behind my ear, landing petals-down in the mud. "

― Traci Chee , We Are Not Free