❝I like to write about people who don’t exist, but somehow I always find pieces of you in every person I create. The girl who found safety in love had your eyes. The boy who worshiped the sun shared your infatuation with cigarettes. Even when I wrote about myself I found that I was really writing about the way you used to hold my hand when we went for walks in the middle of the night and the way you used to rub circles into the back of my palm with your thumb. You left a long time ago but somehow you have crept into every part of me. Even my hands are a host for you; you live within the bones of my fingers and when I reach for the pen below the shelves in my bedside table I know that it will be you between the pages of my notebook. I know that my body is 65% water, but even that is not enough to drown your memory.