"It’s meant to be a heart, right? Then put it over my heart." I stare at him wide-eyed, but he isn’t changing his mind. I’m glad his shirt is black and my mom won't see the blood. Leaning closer, I use the point of the knife to cut the shape of a heart into his skin. He makes a noise a few times, but he doesn’t cry either. When I’m done, there’s blood trailing down his skin. I’m strangely proud of the heart I made. He grabs my hand where he cut it and puts it against his. "You dug my heart's grave," he said, eyes wide and solemn, locked on mine as if sharing a profound secret. "And now
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