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Outside, the campus was bustling with students, a hint of the approaching autumn on the wind, stirring the leaves that would soon lose their chlorophyll and show the world how beautiful it is to die.
“Sometimes fear cleanses the soul, Atta. It reminds us to look at the important things we took for granted while at peace.”
Fucking hell she was beautiful when she was angry. But not as beautiful as when she laughed.
If Sonder Murdoch was the dark lord, her soul was begging to be burned to ash.
“If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I’m the one who will make you wish you were dead. That’s who the fuck I am.”
* a stór (uh stohr)—Irish Gaelic; meaning my darling, or my treasure
Poetry wasn’t in life; it was in what we’ve made of the past, lending it romanticism instead of watching it burn and lie in the ashes. He shouldn’t have brought her into this, this girl made up of poetry and bones, flowers and viscera, everything beautiful and meaningful in life.
“How I thought I was destined to be alone, but it turns out I was starving all these years, waiting for you?”
Loved each other countless times in countless other lives, other realities.
