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Part of me thinks I should stop trying. I’ve looked nonstop for years, ever since I moved to Chicago, and I’m starting to believe the real thing doesn’t exist anymore. Then there’s the reminder that I got to watch eight of my friends find it over the years, so I know, firsthand, that it’s still out there.
I didn’t bring it up again at dinner, but when I went to bed last night, I prayed that my new neighbors would have a kid my age.
“Yep. March eighth. When is your birthday?”
“August third.”
“I pick a song when something cool or important happens so I can remember it. Then when I want to relive a moment, I rewind it back and start the song from the beginning.”
Those hazel eyes. That wavy hair, which is so much shorter than it used to be. It may have been six years since I last saw her, but I’d never forget.
She used to steal all my thoughts. She used to occupy my entire existence.
“The guy you were with tonight.”
“Who was he?”
“Not your job to worr...
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“Lose him.”
Hallie has always been stylish,
So fucking hazel.
“I’m not yours either.”
We’ll see.
“You sure look good in my shirt for not being mine.”
“Get fucked, DeLuca.”
“Would love to. You just let me know when an...
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“Meet you on the roof tonight?”
“See you there.”
“And what happened that was so important when you heard it?”
softly. “It was the first time I realized that you may feel the same way about me as I’ve always felt about you.”
“No jersey?”
“Not until you tell me why you changed your number.”
“And besides, you’ve got plenty of other people wearing yo...
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“Kind of only care ab...
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“You single, Hal?”
“Good.”
“Because we aren’t fucking friends.”
There’s this nagging part of me that’s questioning whether the homesickness I’ve felt for years now has been for Boston or if it’s actually been for her.
I just want to be around her. Everything quiets when she’s around.
Getting the opportunity to fall in love with you is my best memory, and all I can do is hope that one day you’ll let me do it again.”
“I love that dress on you, baby.”
“Thank you. It’s—”
“Take it...
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“Are you sure that’s not just a first-love thing?” “No, baby. It’s a last-love thing.”
Because how am I supposed to speak when my eyes are glued to what is essentially my
last name, tattooed as a heart, inked over his actual heart?
“Because it’s always been us.” With his knuckle, he tilts my chin up so I look at him. “Even when I thought I didn’t want it to be, I knew it was us. I sat there getting this permanently inked onto my skin, trying to convince myself I was only getting it as a reminder that love existed when the whole fucking time, I knew it only existed with you.”
“I don’t think you get what I’m trying to say. I haven’t had sex in a long time.”
“How long is a long time?”
“Six years.”
“I’ve only ever been with you.”
I’m attempting to be a gentleman and give her a moment if she needs to freak out after realizing how utterly gone I’ve been for her for the last fifteen years of my life.
“I haven’t even kissed someone else.”
“There’s no need to cry about this. I would never expect you to wait for me.” “But I did.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
How rare to find someone who understands and appreciates you for exactly who you are at each phase of your life. She liked me before anyone else ever did. She saw my potential when I couldn’t.

