The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

“Say it again,” she pleads. “Say what?” he murmurs. “My name.” Henry smiles. “Addie,” he whispers against her throat. “Addie.” The kisses trail over her collar. “Addie.” Her stomach. “Addie.” Her hips. His mouth finds the heat between her legs, and her fingers tangle in those black curls, her back arching up with pleasure. Time shudders, slides out of focus. He retraces his steps, kisses her again, and then she is on top of him, pressing him down into the bed. They do not fit together perfectly. He was not made for her the way Luc was—but this is better, because he is real, and kind, and human, and he remembers. When it is over, she collapses, breathless, into the sheets beside him, sweat and rain chilling on her skin. Henry folds around her, pulls her back into the circle of his warmth, and she can feel his heart slowing through his ribs, a metronome easing back into its measure. The room goes quiet, marked only by the steady rain beyond the windows, the drowsy aftermath of passion, and soon she can feel him drifting down toward sleep. Addie looks up at the ceiling. “Don’t forget,” she says softly, the words half prayer, half plea. Henry’s arms tighten, a body surfacing from sleep. “Forget what?” he murmurs, already sinking again. And Addie waits for his breath to steady before she whispers the word to the dark. “Me.”

Everyone needs to be seen and, eventually...wants to be remembered too.