Please Mia," he implores. "Don't make me write a song.
And I kissed him back so hard, like I was trying to merge our bodies through our lips.
Traveling isn't something you're good at. It's something you do. Like breathing.
Sometimes the wind blows you places you weren't expecting: sometimes it blows you away from those places, too.
It's nice, this. The canal." He looks at me. "You." "I'll bet you say that to all the canals.
I'll let you go. If you stay.