"It's not about better." [She was tired of trying to be better and never quite getting there. She'd never been good enough, and just the word 'better' annoyed her, but this was about something else.] "It's about what I am."

[She squeezed the cloth tightly in one hand, wringing as much blood from it as she could. It was mostly dry now, but she stubbornly kept scrubbing her leg with it.]

"I'm sick of trying to be something I'm not for..." [Her hair fell messily across her face, blocking him from her sight.] "I don't even know why."