The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

Of course she has missed him. She can tell herself, as she has told him, that she only missed being seen, or missed the force of his attention, the intoxication of his presence—but it is more than that. She missed him the way someone might miss the sun in winter, though they still dread its heat. She missed the sound of his voice, the knowing in his touch, the flint-on-stone friction of their conversations, the way they fit together. He is gravity. He is three hundred years of history. He is the only constant in her life, the only one who will always, always remember.