I needed her to know that despite everything. She was the love of my life, the love of that life. The one that existed in my small apartment and the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The young love that made me feel bold, and terrified, that left me ripped in two when she left. And when she did leave, when I made her leave, when we ended up with this twisted painful understanding refusing to meet in the middle, I forced myself to close that book and start a new one. But even forcing it closed didn’t wholly erase the story from memory.
