In the last one of my notes of Amara, she was a different person than the one I loved. She was skinny and short, dressed in an old dress that caused me disgust, with her hair in a tight bun on top of her head, making her look old and tired.
Her lips were gruesomely bitten, but not by me, and her eyes were red and puffy. She was older now, there were wrinkles around her eyes and her cheekbones were prominent and sharp, and garish.
'' Apochairetismós,'' she said goodbye in Greek.
''Farväl,'' I answered in Swedish.
And so I was left alone in my house, with the corpse of love rotting in my bed.
YOU ARE READING
The cold burned her heart
RomancePelle and Amara have to answer some very important questions. When does love become toxic? At what point do you gain the courage to realize the perfect relationship has turned into a mascarade? And when exactly do you see the abuse you've put each o...
