I still felt sad, and a little incomplete. I suppose with so many things suddenly getting better, the things that were still missing hurt even worse.
It comes from poetry: every word is special. Which is hard to do in a novel, I know. But I feel that way. The wrong word is like a lie jammed inside the story.
Nothing in the world can bother you as much as your own mind, I tell you. In fact, others seem to be bothering you, but it is not others, it is your own mind.