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I stroked the sheet upon which he’d scrawled his threat. I loved this sheet of paper. I loved his threat.
It’s not a faucet. Love’s a bloody river with level-five rapids. Only a catastrophic act of nature or a dam has any chance of stopping it—and then usually only succeeds in diverting it.
every time he’d touched me, my world had dwindled down to one thing: him.
I smell him, I think of sex.
I’d walk through hell and back, smiling, as long as he was beside me.
I was going to unmake this world and replace it with another, so I could have you back.”

