A story of escapism gone to massive lengths, and why I’ve never been better off without it.
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It was probably in the middle of October when Ash, Arkady, and I went to visit Ithaca. (Was March even there on that trip? I don’t remember. My subconscious tends to automatically crop him out of happy memories and I’m honestly here for it.) I loved Ithaca– I still do. It was as if Rochester and Savannah had a love child.
“It’s an apology– kind of. Like the ones actors make when they realise there’s no way they’re not getting cancelled. You can read it now, if you want.”
I shook my head. “I can’t let her have the last word, Cotton. Otherwise, she’d win.” I’d meant that as a joke, but that was answered with another question about how much progress I’d made on finding a therapist.
I remember the four of us waiting around, partially hungover, and charged with pre-battle fire. March was accosted by Ash nearly immediately as he walked in the door. I’m pretty sure Pearl Harbour was less startled. “[March.] You lied to me?”
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