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The family legend goes that she’s so accomplished she caught the attention of NASA, who wanted to send her into space, but she declined because she was too busy. Like, too busy for the moon.
He was the monster who left a real, live, buzzing bee inside my locker on Valentine’s Day when all the other girls were opening theirs up to find flowers.
“If by very well you mean that I have dreamed of murdering you,” I mutter. Cyrus’s gaze flits to my face. Lingers an extra beat. “So you’ve dreamed of me?”
“We’ll have you moving on from her in no time,” he says with a wink. “Who said I wanted to?” Cyrus says flatly.
“A lukewarm warning,” I say, struggling a little more visibly than I really need to, “that if I don’t hold on to something right now, I’m going to slip and take you down with me.”
“A lukewarm warning to you,” Cyrus says, jumping aboard easily after me, “that as flattering as the dress is, you should consider bringing a jacket next time. It’s going to be windy.”
“What do you mean by despite the horse, my mother can still have ten sinks?”
Leah. You remind me of the greatest sculptors, who can turn marble into the impression of billowing silk, the coldest stone into something soft. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that everything you touch turns beautiful. The world becomes beautiful, as long as there’s you.
“No need.” His features are serious, but his eyes gleam with private amusement. “I’ll just tell people that I ran into a fairy. Come on,”
“Anlian,” he says. “An for ‘darkness.’ Lian for ‘love.’ I always thought it was poetic— that when you secretly have feelings for someone, you love them in the darkness. But there’s this other word. Minglian. Ming for—”
Doing things because of how they make me feel rather than how they might sound.
