I couldn’t meet his gaze. I stared at the table just behind him–the mess of cards on it, the lantern giving off its quiet glow. “When you gave me your shirt to wear that night, I could feel you. I could feel your essence.”The world went still. We were standing only inches from each other, not touching. Outside, I could hear the faint murmur of the wind blowing through the trees.”What did it feel like?” he asked in a low voice.”Like…coming home,” I admitted.
― L.A. Weatherly,
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