Whoever said that the past isn't dead had it backward. It's the future that's already dead, already played out.

We stand there for a moment, staring at each other, savoring it. And then all at once, we slam together. Mia's legs are off the ground, wrapped around my waist, her hands dipping in my hair, my hands tangled in hers. And our lips. There isn't enough skin, enough spit, enough time, for the lost years that our lips are trying to make up for as they find each other. We kiss. The electric current switches to high. The lights throughout all of Brooklyn must be surging.

For my first recital ever, they gave me a cello. And for this one, they gave me you.

Forward momentum. That's my new motto. No regrets. And no going back.

I only need a second. So I can show her that I'm here. That someone's still here.

Quitting’s not hard. Deciding to quit is hard. Once you make that mental leap, the rest is easy.”

“Really? Was that how you quit me?” And just like that, without thinking, without saying it in my head first, without arguing with myself for days, it’s out there.

“So,” she says, as if speaking to an audience under the bridge. “He finally says it.