“My love for you is a garden, a forest… No, a jungle.” He sits back, arms crossed, like his words mean something. “It grows every day, Jenny, and I can’t stop it.”
“Well, you should. I don’t love you. And you can keep your gardens and forests and jungles. I was born and bred for the city, my dear.”
“My dear?” Those eyes light up like it actually means something.
“I call everyone dear.”
“No, you don’t.”
Following his gaze, I glance over my shoulder. Weeds are growing through the cracks like it means something.
“Okay, so maybe I don’t.”
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