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That we’velovedeach other.
And isn’t that the most poetic thing ever?
Who cares about love when the guy I fell in love with is making poetry for me, right out of thin air? Who cares about love when the guy I’m obsessed with and insane for and live for and crave with every breath I take just told me that he’s been carrying me in his heart?
He told me that, didn’t he?
That he’s been carrying these woods where we first met in his chest.
I mean, love seems so silly and small when you think about it all.
He’s right.
I put a hand on his chest, where his tattoo is. “They’rereallycoordinates of where we met?”
His chest moves up and down with a breath. “That was the only way I could keep you close. Or rather, the only way I allowed myself to keep you close. After everything.”
“Because you…” I fist his shirt. “Stopped writing in your diary.”
“Yeah.”
Holy God, he has a diary.
Adiary.
Just like me.
I mean…
What are the chances of that?
What are thefucking chances?
“What color is it?” I breathe out.
“Black.”
“I want to read it.”
“You can.”
“And not just three lines.”
“It’s yours.”
“You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I think…” I step up to him. “I think this is how you fix it.”
“I will,” he says with determination.
“This is how you fix not telling me. All this time. Hiding this crazy connection between us. This crazy and huge and massive and gigantic connection.”
“Yeah.”
My heart twists. “And I want you to start writing in your diary again.”
