She was broken.

She was scarred, a piece of her gone missing. Who even was this girl?

Her home, her family, it was broken, too. Left incomplete. The same piece missing as was from her.

The pain, it used to be so strong, but has since dulled to only a faint ache. Honestly, she knows it won't ever really go away. But what else could even be expected? She used to be someone's "perfect little angel," but now she's just an unfinished puzzle, a journal with one too many pages ripped out. Wings clipped and halo in pieces.

And I know she might not ever be okay. I know she's scarred, broken, and maybe she's longing for something long gone, but, really, I can't blame her. But I also know she's not just an incomplete puzzle, but one that's slowly putting itself back together. She's writing new pages for herself.

And she might not ever be okay, but I've always admired how she's come through it all. How she always finds the best in everything, holds on to that smile of hers, that gasping, hiccuping laugh that you really can't help but join in on.

Because, really, what else is expected when one loses her mother?

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At least, that's how he saw things.