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Layla, my childhood friend turned next-door neighbor, called him a real-life Gaston. “Easy on the eyes but begging to get thrown from a roof.”
“Funny, I didn’t know you were into that.” “Into what?” “Respecting boundaries.” “When did I not respect your boundaries?” Her eyes were so wide I could see my entire reflection in them. When you made me your boyfriend without my consent.
“Go make yourself presentable,” I muttered, stomping my way to the shower before I did more female things. Like blushing again, or maybe fucking swooning in her arms. “And for the love of God, try not to wear anything patterned.”
“Death is no longer an obscure idea. It is real and it is waiting, so you grab life by the balls. When you go through the horror of seeing someone you love die and still manage to wake up the next day to tie your shoelaces, to shove a tasteless breakfast down your throat, to breathe, you realize survival trumps tragedy. Always. It’s a primal instinct.”
Chase Black rejected love because he was afraid of losing it. And me? I chased it because I’d lost the greatest love of all.
Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home you can’t return to or that never was.
