An intelligent enemy,' he would say, stroking his beard as if it were a bristly pet, 'rather than a foolish friend.' Or, 'He learnt the language of pigeons, and forgot his own.' Or, the favourite of Jan Fishan Khan: 'Nothing is what it seems. ↗
I love you,” she whispered.
He stroked his hand down her back. “Yep, you do.”
“You’re supposed to say it back,” she said, pretending to be offended because the silliness kept the fear/hope at bay.
“Why?” He scowled down at her. “You know you’re my heartbeat. ↗
It was strange walking through the empty apartment. My battered purple room was gone, Brittany’s bruised blue was gone. Two coats covered everything. It was like none of it had ever happened. ↗