Seeing him again, feeling his energy calling out to mine, a truth settles deep inside me: Ryan likes it when I laugh. From the moment we met, he’s spent all his energy trying to draw the sound from my lips. Lying in his bed late at night, pretending I’m helping him fall asleep, I’ll laugh at something he says, and he’ll brush a finger up the column of my throat, tracing the path of the sound. To him, my laugh is music. To him, my laugh is magic. My Ryan.
