He knew by then that I was in love with him. I told him the week before he started seeing someone else. She was beautiful and perfect and I knew that I had to be happy for him because he was my best friend.
He told me this book reflected the reckless side of his character nobody ever really saw. Except me, of course. I knew that boy like the back of my own hand. Still do, in fact.
Ultimately the book itself didn’t really matter. And yet I devoured every page like a starving woman. Anything to get closer to this beautiful enigma. Sometimes we read chapters together, sometimes I read alone. The words embraced me like he never would.
Finishing the last page was my own personal therapy. I couldn’t sit around for the next book recommendation. I had to write my own story.