She had held nothing back just because she wanted to keep it from him. His was a world of painted moons and feather grasses and trees that bloomed in autumn. She didn’t want to bring into that world the awful, half-remembered things she grasped at when she had a fever. She wanted to be the girl who belonged under his moons, the girl whose skin he’d set foil stars on in constellations that mirrored the sky.
