“There are a lot of things I pretend not to love.” I still at her words. My gaze wanders over the face she tilts toward me, over every strand of silver hair falling around it. I reach up slowly, running my fingers through the shining, sun-drenched pieces. My voice is a murmur, a quiet confession. “You’re far better at pretending than I am.” Her smile is sad. “I’ve just had more practice at it.”
