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How easily he moves through the world, she thinks. How hard he’s made it for her.
History is a thing designed in retrospect.
That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.
They teach you growing up that you are only one thing at a time—angry, lonely, content—but he’s never found that to be true. He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid. But he is not alone.
The details are simply fading, as all things do, glossing over by degrees, the mind loosening its hold on the past to make way for the future.
Belief is a bit like gravity. Enough people believe a thing, and it becomes as solid and real as the ground beneath your feet. But when you’re the only one holding on to an idea, a memory, a girl, it’s hard to keep it from floating away.
