I always imagined love was something you couldn’t easily push aside. But that’s exactly what he’s doing, treating me like a demanding piece of sheet music he’ll try to play later when he’s had more time to practice other things. Or like the dog-eared page of a book he’ll pick up again when he has the time. Maybe. If I’m the story that still interests him. Or the remaining chapters could just languish indefinitely on the shelf, forever stopped in the middle of a story. But I’m not some book. This is our story. And I’m not some piece of music he can push aside. This is our symphony.
