He remembers what helped. She remembers what hurt.
I cut my sandwiches into shapes.
I never think about which shape I’m making.
I’ve always just done it.
Ephraim Carter remembers things I’ve forgotten, and he looks at me like five years didn’t change shit.
At least rugby makes sense.
Give me a ball, and I know what to do with it.
Lindenwood’s golden-boy fly-half was easier to deal with when we were pretending the other didn’t exist.
Now he keeps showing up where I can’t ignore him.
I can usually figure out why I do something, even when I don’t like the answer.
I just can’t figure out why the shapes keep leading back to him.