He said the truth is like that water: it doesn't matter how hard you try to bury it; it'll always find some way back to the surface. It's resilient.
There’s something different about him, and I don’t have to think hard to see it. Something about the way he takes over a room, the way he looks at me, like he has already identified and can disarm every one of my defense mechanisms with no effort, like he sees through them to the disaster lying beneath. And he wants it.
What’s wrong is that every morning and every night, I lie in bed wondering why you’re not beside me.
