“We were ghosts back then. Sneaking through nights that weren’t meant for us — your parents asleep, my aunt watching every move I made. The pier by the East River, the rusted fire escape behind the bookstore, that filthy bar on 39th where the floor stuck to our shoes and no one gave a damn who we were. You’d laugh, and I’d forget what it meant to hurt. You’d touch me, and I’d think maybe I wasn’t made of ruin after all.”
