"I can't remember everything," I said.
My voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the silence of the room. The words felt fragile, like they might break if I spoke them too loudly.
"It's okay." Kastiel's voice was steady beside me. "You don't have to tell me right now. I was just saying."
We were sitting on the bed now, side by side. I was sitting beside him, my hands folded in my lap, my shoulders slumped. I wasn't crying anymore. The tears had dried on my cheeks, leaving behind a tightness in my skin, a rawness that matched what I felt inside.
I stared at my legs, at the soft fabric of my pajama pants, at my fingers twisting together in my lap. I couldn't look at him. If I looked at him, I would see whatever expression was on his face, and I wasn't sure I could handle that. Pity, maybe. Or horror. Or worse—that careful, measured neutrality that people used when they didn't know what to say but wanted to look like they did.
"When I turned eighteen, my dad sold me."
