Christina Lauren

“Favorite word?” he whispers.

I don’t even hesitate: “You.”

It was just so much easier to feel nothing instead.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home for eleven years. I’ll go anywhere you go.”

I can promise that you will never be so loved as when you come home to us.”

Do you want to make this forever?

“Are you hurt? Are you lonely?”

I feel him right there behind me but I know he isn’t.

It’s these tiny reminders that hurt, the tiny moments where you think—let me just call out to him.

At least this way he’ll see how loved he was.

“There you are,” he says. “Come back to me. Where did you go?”