My mother once told me that the first time she saw my father, it was love at first sight. It was the exact opposite for me when I saw Aspen Falcone. I hated her face and the stupid freckles lining the bridge of her nose. I hated her smile and her crooked teeth. I hated the carefree way she giggled and how the wind blew her long red hair as she swung on the swing. I hated the way she looked at me when our gazes collided—like she could see all the demons taking up residence in my black soul. I hated her for prying and asking shit she had no business asking. I hated her for breathing the
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