Ever since I understood how much I can learn from other women, I’ve been consciously seeking the company of those who inspire me. And when I’m lucky enough to be around them, I try to make the most of every minute we spend together.

Sometimes I feel like we women speak a secret language. One not designed for peacekeeping, but for quietly turning on each other.

Not just any kind. A medical one. Or more precisely, a disease one.

“Cheers,” Kitti said, raising her glass, her cheeks flushed.

Before she brought the crystal to her lips, she glanced once more at the elegant table.

“You don’t really need people, do you? Your world is so colorful and exciting that you don’t need anyone to enjoy it.”

And what kind? Salted or buttery? Or maybe both?

“What’s truly good sells itself. You don’t need to advertise it.”

It’s been six months since I last opened the innermost door of my big wardrobe. I simply didn’t dare to even touch the ornate wrought-iron handle.

I still remember the moment I first heard the word used about me. It wasn’t even a diagnosis, more like an offhand remark.

The sight of the perfectly arranged cosmetics on the shelf always calmed Peter. It was as if the person who had lined up those jars of cream had measured the distances with a ruler—distances so flawless they were a delight to the eye and a balm to the mind.