He didn’t drive me to fury and frustration. He didn’t humble me. He didn’t stir my blood with his moans. He didn’t inspire me to thoughts I’d never had, to actions I never considered myself capable of. He didn’t smell of tart apples. He didn’t have hair so red it glowed like a bonfire. He didn’t collect illuminated manuscripts. He didn’t spend hours in the library until ink stained his fingers. He didn’t have a chin that crinkled when he was upset. He didn’t make my son smile. He didn’t alter the speed of my pulse—then shatter it to fucking pieces. He wasn’t her. No one else would ever be her.
