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A strange feeling washes over me at that sound, almost like déjà vu. Her laugh is warm. Husky. And somehow…familiar. I let the bumper fall out of my hands and back to the ground. I couldn’t describe the feeling that comes over me then even if I tried—a surreal sense of
anticipation, an almost dreamlike inevitability that sends chills up and down my spine. I stand up slowly. And I know, without knowing how I know, that when I turn around, everything is going to change.
want to go to bed at night and know that things will still be okay when we wake up. We want to rest easy. And that’s the feeling a white picket fence gives off: safety. Stability. Sometimes it’s an illusion, of course. But sometimes it’s not.
I silently thank the inventor of flannel pajama pants and white t-shirts for his or her impeccable service to our nation before tearing my eyes away.
We keep our dead, and our dead keep us. We remember them, and they in turn find us at the moments we don’t expect—a flash of memory on a summer’s day, a snippet of an old favorite song, a long-lost photograph unearthed.
for goodness’ sake.” I point to his impassive expression. “Do something with your face, so that I can figure out what you’re thinking. You either look disapproving or completely neutral all the time, and I never know what’s going on in your head. It’s stressful.”
I find it’s remarkable how many people don’t think they’re allowed to be sad.
My eyes dart hungrily over every Post-it I can find, devouring her words. They’re stark and blunt in places, meandering in others, full of visceral imagery. It’s her naked mind on display, both light and dark, strange and familiar, and she’s done something incredible with it. She sees her shadows; she weaves them through her fingers. She knows their value. But she doesn’t drown in them. She remains sunshine—not soft, gentle sunshine, but abrasive sunshine with sharp edges. That’s how she channels her demons, both in her poetry and her life: she uses them to make her light shine brighter in
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His lazy smile has turned into that signature smirk, but I don’t even call him out; he’s earned this one.
maybe, if I can figure the scary things out, they won’t be so scary anymore.
I can’t. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t stop this, and I don’t want to.
They don’t make sense, these half-formed desires, but I want those things anyway. I want everything she has, greedy in a way I’ve never felt before.
every now and then she looks at our clasped hands and smiles, a tiny slash of her lips that’s both amused and, for some reason, smug. “Okay, enough,” I say finally when she does it again. I close the refrigerator and then nod at her. “What’s with the smirking?” Her smile widens as she attempts to pull her hand away. “Mine,” I say with a frown, holding tighter.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes sparkling, her hair somehow extra pink. “I like you.” “Yeah,” I say as my smile fades into something softer. “I like you too.” These aren’t words I’m used to saying; I don’t have these kinds of conversations. But this thing with Juniper…I’ve fallen into it. Slipped into it, really, with astonishing ease. Maybe because she found her way here first, and I simply held on for dear life while she dragged me along after her. Her mind is magical, and her heart is strong. How could I not follow her into whatever rainbow dimension she hurled us toward?
“Go to bed,” I say, reaching up and curling my fingers around hers. “Tomorrow is a new day.” She nods and swings her legs off the couch. Then she stands up, lifting her arms high over her head as she stretches. It causes her shirt to ride up a few inches, and on her back I can just make out a hint of the tattoo that’s inked over her scar. What if I hadn’t found her that day, all those years ago, digging through a dumpster for her breakfast? Would we still be sitting here like this? Would we have traveled separate paths? Or would fate have brought us together in a different way?
