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Atlas Blakely was born as the earth was dying. This is a fact.
Julian Rivera Pérez was also born as the earth was dying because everyone was, fuck you! Atlas Blakely wasn’t special and frankly, neither are you.
Parisa and Tristan may not have been on speaking terms, but Libby could still feel her between them, opaquely present. As if Parisa’s absence still controlled them both just as much as if she’d lain between them on the bed, one hand on each of their necks.
“I feel like we’re in a pretentious film about tortured geniuses.”
“I will spend my life orbiting yours,” Nico said, and the exhaustion in his voice, she knew it. She understood it. “I consider it a privilege. Does that mean less if we never sleep together? If we never have babies and hold hands, does that have to mean less?
Did wealth always necessitate corruption? Yes, obviously—obviously, Callum thought with an inward scoff, profit was made off the backs of someone else’s labor,
She remembered her gray hair, her impending invisibility. How much mortality was she capable of, exactly?
He was shouting at her now, and she flinched in spite of herself. She had known too many men like this, and it was always ugly, this place of no return. This anger, the kind that Parisa herself was not allowed to have, and certainly not allowed to show.
She understood it one way and one way alone: that to love was to feel another’s pain as if it were your own.
“He bought her gambling debts and consolidated them into one impossible price.” “Oh, cute,” said Parisa. “Like a metaphor for poverty.”
Humanity did not want to change. It did not deserve it.
