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❝ I believe there is penance in yearning. There is poverty in giving too much of your heart. When your desire for another is not returned in equal measure―nothing in the world could compensate for the shortfall. Sometimes the loneliest place to be is in love. ❞
( LANG LEAV ━━━━━━ THE LONELIEST PLACE )
She often tells victims or their relatives to breathe and count to five, to rethink and regroup their thoughts:
One.
Find something to focus on. Could range from a photo in a frame which brings a sense of permanence and stability against a maroon wall in a suddenly too-empty feeling house to a pile of leaves the chorus of green, their veins sweet flowing waters within. Monica's mind would always go back to the hospital. She arrives to the navy double doors, which have drab chrome handles and a plastic band affixed in the middle. In order to get a glimpse of the corridor that extends beyond and is divided into little squares by the thin wire in the glass panels, Monica would shift her focus away from the highly polished linoleum floor. Without pausing, she would push against it with her entire weight, but she didn't need to—it opens silently and effortlessly. Her face would be met by a warm breath of air that was tinged with bleach. Magnolia walls in front of her are filled with ancient, black-and-white pictures of hospital employees who are almost certainly dead or rocking their nineties in a retirement community. The corridor features curved walls rather than straight ones and vanishes from view after around 100 metres. She walks past a set of doors with a hand sanitizer dispenser: for oncology, geriatrics, and maternity. Monica Choung would focus at the hospital on one, never her new field of work with the FBI.
