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Kindle Notes & Highlights
“You started our life without me,” he whispers, his head falling between his knees. He clutches the pillow into his stomach and wraps his arms protectively around it. “Like I didn’t even exist.”
We were two separate trees nurtured together in the same backyard. The roots have crossed and intertwined, looped about and driven deep into the earth. Even fused together in some places, like toes touching under the covers. It’s not so easy to extricate your life
from someone else’s. It’s impossible to deny the pain when one of those trees is ripped from the ground.
“Come on now, Autumn, when did we ever need to make plans? You and me? We just are.”
Our love is one of grimy feet and snowcone-stained tongues. I’ve never been here before, but no place has ever felt more like a physical representation of who we are. Empty but cared for. Unused, but not forgotten. Dusty, but somehow, after all this time, still magical.
