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I know I’ll never love anyone like I love Baz. I know he’s the love of my life. Of all my lives.
“I want to … try. Because—Because I love you, Baz. I love you, and I didn’t think that I could keep you. But if there’s a chance … If there’s any chance at all … I can’t—I want—I need—”
“You never said,” I say. “Haven’t I?” “No.” He frowns. “I thought—I mean … I’ve killed so many things for you.” I laugh. It might be another sob, but maybe it’s just a laugh. “What are you, a house cat? Am I supposed to know how you feel because you brought me a mouse?”
“This thing between us didn’t start with us dating. It didn’t even start when you kissed me. You’re in me so deep, I wouldn’t know how to dig you out. I may get fed up with you … But, Simon, I’ll never get tired of you.”
Jezus Christy
What a ridiculous creature. Happy that I put butter on his sandwich. As if I wouldn’t make the world spin backwards if I thought he’d like it better that way.
I may actually die
It’s like trying to be in a relationship with one of those fields Princess Diana was always drawing worthy attention to—the war is over, the armies have gone home, but no one knows where the mines are buried.
“I just want to be with you,” I say. “And this is where we are now. I’m a broken-down mess, and you’re a rat-drinking monster.”
Bless these baby boys
“All I really know is that nothing I’ve experienced so far compares to you. Maybe that makes me gay.” He swallows. “Or maybe that just makes me yours.”
Fine, you fucker. Have me. Just have me. Do your worst, you stubborn twat. Be the death of me. You’ll be the death of me.
Is this what people do? They just keep talking and touching?
Is this what people do? Do they just keep talking? And touching?
(I don’t understand what this is. Why people do it. Why we stoke fires in each other. What are we burning?)
She’d look very, very good like this. Her face looks severe with her hair scraped back into the bun. But this makes her look … fierce instead. Oh, I suppose Niamh looks fierce no matter what. With that nose. That crushed plum of a mouth. That mean chin. But this takes her from fierce to something else … Something very nearly intolerable. She looks like Marlon Brando.
I knew you were queer bitch!
Is this what people do? Get as close as they can and then push closer? Burn each other’s faces into their eyelids? Let each other into every gap? And then what? Then just tomorrow, and more? I want something. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to take.
“I love you,” I say. I may as well say it, I’m thinking it. It’s all I ever think. I’m an “I love you” gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.
God this is the thing. It really is.
Good for her. Good for Niamh. With her whole … face situation. The nose and the, um … chin, like a hatchet. The everything like a hatchet. Sharp. And heavy. I think she blow-dried her hair. Good for her. That’s good. This whole … thing is good for her.
Gay paniccccc
A lock of her hair has fallen onto her forehead. It’s intolerable. She’s intolerable.
“Honestly. Are you a mage or a mouse?” I hold my gem over the lock. “Open Sesame!”
Okay Hermione
