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Read Between The Lines

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There was a warmth that radiated through Poussey's chest, rushed to her extremities and left her head cloudy. She was afraid to name it. Voicing it might corrode the feeling, and if anything, she wanted to make this feeling stay.

If she could, she would crystallize it and lock it in her chest, every now and then to pull it out and hold a magnifying glass to it like some kind of strange science experiment. It was just as odd and glowing and wonderful as an organ in a jar.

But it was temporary. It lived inside stolen moments in hidden corners of the prison yard, broom closets, empty stairwells and up against library stacks when no one else was around.

She didn't want to name it, but if she had to, she'd call it reciprocity – the moment when she and Taystee locked eyes and shared the exact same thoughts, space, and movement. Give and take. This was no longer one-sided. She was no longer hopelessly chasing after something she couldn't have. They were on the same page.