This is a love story. Twisted and messy. Flawed and screwed up. But it’s ours. It’s us. I don’t know how our story will end. but I know it will start. I pick up my pen and begin to write:
My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something.
@litladiesnetwork‘s third event | woc in literature: mara amitra dyer
You’re the girl who called me an asshole the first time we spoke. The girl who tried to pay for lunch even after you learned I have more money than God. You’re the girl who risked her ass to save a dying dog, who makes my chest ache whether you’re wearing green silk or ripped jeans.
“There’s something wrong with me, Noah. Fix it.“
Noah’s expression broke my heart as he brushed my hair from my face, and skimmed the line of my neck. ”I can’t“
”Why not?“ I asked, my voice threatening to crack.
”Because,“ he said, ”You’re not broken.”
(x)
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