“Only the Other could write my love story, my novel”

Sometimes there are moments when I realise how much I love story. Storying. Telling something to somebody else, nobody else, just telling a story to the world and hoping, knowing, longing that somebody will hear. Just telling. Telling. It is all in the telling and the shaping and the forming and the making, making, making.

I feel feverish. I feel as though I want to lock the door and let everything spin past me.

I believe in story. I love story. I reaffirm myself to it, I cleave to it and wrap my arms around it and will not let it go.

I write for moments. I write for the moment when a girl looks in a mirror and sees herself, properly, wholly, painfully, for the first time. I write for the moment when a girl is able to describe herself and not pause and not wonder where to begin. I write for the moment when two people look at each other and realise that that moment, right there, when they see themselves in another’s eyes, that is everything. I write for the space in between people where we touch, so briefly, so endlessly. I write for the life that we live for the life that we could live for the life that we don’t want to live, for the life that we dream of each and every day.

I write for that space just beyond the fingertip touch.I write for the edge of forever and the moment when your skin touches the one you love.

I shiver for those moments. I ache for them.

I adore them.

Their story. My story. Our story.

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