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There haven’t been many books that broke my heart; not many who shattered it into pieces, anyway. Continue reading
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There haven’t been many books that broke my heart; not many who shattered it into pieces, anyway. Continue reading
I thought I would have a notebook worth of things I wanted to say but never did. Continue reading
Living with anxiety goes something like this:
You’re watching TV or listening to music and then you check your phone and realize you have a voicemail. That red dot on an iPhone taunting you, fishing out the worst in you. Continue reading
I tried to sketch us a world.
I searched for hotels and plane tickets; circled bank holidays and vacation destinations; bookmarked islands and museums and ski resorts. Continue reading
Dear Joan,
I read Goodbye to All That a couple of days after I had moved down to Stuyvesant Town from the Upper East Side. Yes, I’ll admit, I read it a few years too late, but at least I got it done. I was a Los Angeles transplant who had landed in New York City a few decades after you, ready to make it as a writer. I moved around from Murray Hill to SoHo to the Upper West, until—finally—I found a home in Yorkville. (I guess I was always more of an Upper East kind of writer.) Continue reading
And today I realized, it’s not New York I miss; it never was.
“It’s all about you.”
And that makes it okay, because I believe in us.
The first time she heard his moans, she wanted to build him a world.
She wanted to fall onto her knees and ghost her fingers over his stomach and shoulders, and drop soft kisses all over his body. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend that he was in the same bed as her, instead of being all alone in his apartment. Continue reading
She told me it was over, that it was for the best.
(And when she told me it was over, she couldn’t have known I was going to ask for forever.)