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“I’m scared of being forgotten,” I whispered. “Of falling into the cracks of life and disappearing.”
I only realised I was crying when his warm palm slid over my cheek and he brushed aside my tears with the rough pad of his thumb. “Not sad,” I mumbled. “I’m…serotonin.”
“Some people are born into family. We get to choose ours. We make our own, forged out of our hearts and weaved together by the strings of our souls. And that is stronger than blood.”
Diarmuid once said to me that we were the lucky ones. He meant kids like us with no real family. Because we got to choose ours. I,” she pushed back a strand of his hair that had fallen out of his messy bun, “chose him. Long before he chose me.”
“He is my family. My soul family.”
“you have my skin.”
