“You’d do this,” he said, trying to angle his face to where my eyes were staring. “You’d stand here in front of me, essentially holding a map to happiness in your hands and shred it like you’d never want to know the way back.” He braced when I burst out in mad laughter. “There are no metaphors here, Peter. It’s just me. This is who I am. I thought I was direct, as an adult would be—I never said I’d go with you. I never said I’d be yours if you left. There are things I can’t do, places I won’t go. Not now, maybe not ever. This is who wrote a response to you in her journal. This is who you wrote
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