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I turn and stride away, humiliated by the fact I was just rejected by my real-life book boyfriend.
And without some gallant, final grand gesture, I let my book boyfriend walk away, keeping him safe right where he belongs, in fiction.
She shrugs noncommittally again, and it’s annoying. Why doesn’t she want to write there anymore?
Bro you can't have it both ways!
Miles Hudson is the sun and the air and the moon and the stars. He’s fucking wonderful, and he loves me. How much more book worthy can it get than that?
