But listen, in this story I have a guitar, yes, a guitar. I sling it over my shoulder and I have red hennaed hair. I have a gypsy skirt and we wander over hills, your hand tracing circles on mine. You look ahead and notice water, you point it out and we camp out for the night. But no, listen, in this story I call you ‘love’ and I still mean it- not in that casual way I fling out to people like Emily from class and the guy who emailed me his notes. But listen, in this story you never died. And there never were any guns. In this story I went to a shrink and they helped me come to terms with everything and calmed down my neuroses. In that other story I never had any problems to begin with. In this story you kissed me and your lips tasted of smoke, not carbonated water and sugar. In that other story we ran away and they never found us; we created a Moonrise Kingdom of our own. In my story there are no guns.

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