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Maybe those weren’t really phone calls at all. Maybe they’d just been flowers at the grave of a friend she used to love a lot.
look how lovingly tattooed his skin was, each mark a small confirmation that even though it felt like he hated his life and his body, deep down, he wanted to keep it, to redecorate the place to his own liking.
They were happy and sad, angry and forgiven, they were wanted, they were wanted, they were wanted.
You of all people should know how appealing it is for someone else to have a plan.
She’d believed in their plan because she wanted someone else to have the answers, even though deep in her heart, she’d always known it wasn’t right.
(was that a mistake?)(something had been a mistake)(the cards of the house had all come down for some reason),
because that’s her big thing, isn’t it, being vaguely suggestible to avoid having bad ideas herself.”
There was a strange sort of magic to being a person holding another person after not being held by someone for a long time. There was another strange sort of magic to understanding you’d been using words and silence the wrong way for a long time.
Love, for her, was her confession to him that she didn’t feel it the same way, that she’d trusted him enough with this truth about herself. Love was that she wanted him to know her truly, rather than love a version of herself that she simply wore for him.
That love might not ever look like the love he gave to her, but it didn’t change what it was.
All this time, the biggest lie Declan had told himself was that he hated his father. What he’d really meant, every time he thought it, every single day, was: I miss him.
But really they were quarreling about the impossible future. They could not go into it the same as they were, and they both knew it.
They kept saying it. The less true it felt, the more they said it. Magic is about intention. So are conversations.
