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This is heaven: her forehead pressed into me, her head under my arm, and my hand on her shoulder. We found each other by instinct.
It’s more like Autumn is a real princess but from an alien planet. She is the most confident and insecure person I’ve ever known.
It is cosmically unfair how beautiful Autumn is. It puts me at such a disadvantage. Her brilliant, goofy brain was already enough. Why must she have a perfect face too?
How am I going to live the rest of my life in love with Autumn Davis with no hope of reciprocation?
My love for her is the closest thing I have to religion. But it’s okay that she doesn’t feel the same. I’m fine. I can handle it.
Maybe you are the two stupidest people on earth who somehow don’t realize you’re in love with each other,
My devotion to Autumn is engraved on my very being. I am in awe of her. I will sit in the stands and cheer her on in life as her most ardent admirer. I know I will always love her in the same way I know I’ll always need oxygen.
Books are Autumn’s real life. She is made of the stories she has read.
All apologies, every apology, is forgotten, and my lips are on hers. I am only my lips. No other part of me exists.
“Life can be and often is fiercely cruel,”
We are all dead bodies that haven’t died yet.
“Now while my lips are living, Their words must stay unsaid, And will my soul remember To speak when I am dead? Yet if my soul remembered You would not heed it, dear, For now you must not listen, And then you could not hear.”