swings | byler

you gripped my hand, so tight i was afraid our skin would mesh, and you asked me, "are you real?" before i could answer, though, you started talking. just talking. you told me about the sound your dad's voice makes when he yells, your mother's satin shoes, and the color of my eyes. i was fifteen but i think i loved you then. i didn't tell you. i never did.
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or mike writes a letter to will following the tragedy. don't read this, it's too sad. major character death. don't read, save yourself.