And then I turn another corner, and my chest constricts so tightly, so painfully, that I can no longer breathe.Because there he is.He’s engrossed in an oversize book, hunched over and completely absorbed. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he bites his nails. . . . Several other people are soaking up the rare sunshine, but as soon as they’re registered, they’re forgotten. Because of him.I grip the edge of a sidewalk café table to keep from falling. The diners stare in alarm, but I don’t care. I’m reeling, and I gasp for air.How can I have been so stupid?How could I have ever for a moment believed I wasn’t in love with him?
― Stephanie Perkins,
Anna and the French Kiss
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