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Getting PTSD from Ginny and Georgia
Except this time, the bathroom floods with light and the doorframe is fixed.
It turns out it only takes one hockey player to change a light bulb, and I have a very good idea which one it was.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHAHDVEIDBUENAVSUSB
There isn’t anything I don’t like about her. Every little detail. It’s safe to say Ginny Scott’s grown on me just like Neapolitan ice cream.
Asaahhhhhh
“We should celebrate.” Adam claps me on the shoulder. “What do you feel like doing?” Your sister.
“Trying to watch a movie in here!” someone else calls out a window not far from mine. Heath looks toward the voice. “Sorry, man. Almost done.” Mav pushes forward. “Go fucking watch it then. Guy’s trying to pour his heart out.” He nods to Heath as if to say, I’ve got you covered.
You are my favorite person. You’re the only person I’d skip food for or that could convince me to eat Neapolitan ice cream or… a thousand other things. You. It’s only you. And when I walked in here, I fully intended to stand firm on my stance of never speaking the words, of keeping the best thing in my life away from my worst memories, but then I saw you and I realized that it doesn’t matter what it’s meant before. If loving you is wanting to spend every day with you, laughing and having fun, supporting you, and having your back, then I do. I love you, Ginny. Of course, I do.”
“Really, really. I love you. I love you. I freaking love you.”
