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“And I love to look at you, beautiful Olivia,” he whispers back, his voice hoarse. “It’s a privilege I don’t deserve, but one I’m so grateful for.”
Write down what you feel. Everything you feel—about Paris, about life, about me—from now until September. Then leave it when you go, so I’m not alone with my memories. Leave me your memories, too, so I’ll know it all really happened once you’re gone. So I’ll know you weren’t just a beautiful dream.
