“I am an addict,” he tells me, sure. “You’re not meant to be addicted to me.” “I’m not addicted to you, I’m in love with you,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t need you, I want you. And I want you because I know you.” He searches for my eyes. “I know you, Georgia, and I know you’ve spent your whole life shouldering other people’s pain and their secrets, usually at a massive cost to yourself, and now I’m here, and I’ll help you shoulder some of it, but because I love you, I’m also going to help you draw some lines, because for a psychology major you have some real fucking shit boundaries with
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