Eight Perfect Hours

by Lia Louis

hate that Daisy is stuck in time. I hate that she will forever be eighteen. That she’ll never know twenty-two, thirty-two, seventy-two. That she’ll never fall in love, or see New York, or Amsterdam. Amsterdam.

“My life has started. I’m in it. It’s not something I’m waiting for anymore. I’m here. And whatever I wanted for my life, was it this?”

We’d talk about it sometimes, like we talked about everything in the future, as if we’d suddenly be different people when we got there.