It had always fascinated him that she'd consumed so many words, that her head was full of stories, told a thousand different ways.

Her friendship . . . still existed, as if it was a living, breathing thing, something that came to life the moment it happened and didn't just go away because they no longer acknowledged it.

She'd always known he didn't love her. But it was easier to bear when he didn't know she loved him. That way they were even. Now he knew he had all the power.

She sometimes thought she was going crazy. Her first thought when she woke up was always how to get him out of her thoughts. And she would keep watch, hoping to see him next door, while plotting ways to never have to see him again.

Everything was quiet, a strange sort of quiet that felt like an unfinished sentence.

It had always fascinated him that she'd consumed so many words, that her head was full of stories, told a thousand different ways.

Memories, even hard memories, grew soft like peaches as they grow older.