Pressed up against him, I can feel the thud of his heart against mine, his ribcase expanding and contracting rapidly against my chest, the warm whisper of his breath tickling the side of my neck, the brush of his leg against my thigh. Resting my arms on his shoulders, I pull back a little to get a look at his face. But he isn't smiling any more.

What else could he possibly have done? What choices did he ever have?

At the age of five she has already come to terms with one of the life's harshest lessons: that the world isn't fair.

Time has stopped; time is racing. Lochie's lips are rough yet smooth, hard yet gentle. His fingers are strong: I feel them in my hair and on my neck and down my arms and against my back. And I never want him to let me go.

Otherwise I'll fall apart. I'm going to fall apart. I am falling apart.

Lochie. The boy I once loved. The boy I still love. The boy I will continue to love, even when my part in this world is over too.

It's horrible being ashamed of someone you care about; it eats away at you. And if you let it get to you, if you give up the fight and surrender, eventually that shame turns to hate.