This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
In the quiet, and the dark, I got stronger.
If we could just float along, like snow.
I reached and ran a finger along her collarbones, my favorite place: like the silhouette of tiny wings.
In my mind, I was reliving my whole life again-slowly, taking my time. Delaying. Because I knew, sooner or later, I'd get to her. And then...Well, I'd already died once. I couldn't live through it again.
In my mind, I was reliving my whole life again-slowly, taking my time. Delaying. Because I knew, sooner or later, I'd get to her.
I thought I would never see the sky again. Anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.
How did I love her? Let me count the ways. The freckles on her nose like the shadow of a shadow; the way she chewed her lip when she was thinking and the way her ponytail swung when she walked and how when she ran she looked like she was born going f...
There was one painting, I remember, that showed a broad, clean sweep of sky and the ocean drawn out to the horizon, and the sand littered with seashells and crabs and mermaid's purses and bits of seaweed. A boy and girl were standing four feet apart,...
This was my secret: she was the one who saved me.
I was thinking of Lena. Of course. I was always thinking of Lena.
It sounded like the world was ending. But it wasn't.
I had no jacket, but I didn't even care. I was free.
That was torture--being able to see, and smell, and hear, and being trapped in a cage. Like standing on the wrong side of the fence, only a few feet from freedom, and knowing you'll never cross it. Yeah. Like that.
We were lying on the blanket in the backyard of 37 Brooks, like we always did that summer. Lena was on her side, cheek resting on her hand, hair loose. Beautiful.
So: outside, and to the black rush of the Presumpscot River. To freedom. For me, the world was beginning.
How did I love her? Let me count the ways.
They couldn’t have known that even this was a lie—that we never really choose, not entirely. We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forwa...
