Hello, Happies!

Dear Happies,

You may be viewing this post through a link recently sent to you as part of an application for an internship with your company. I’d like, if you have the time, to take a moment to tell you why I’m applying for this internship, and why I’d excel at the role.

First of all, I have recently graduated from Newcastle University with a 2:1 BA (Hons) in English Literature with Creative Writing. I enjoyed every second of the course, thrilled to be studying full-time to become a better writer, and a more active reader. Because, however, degrees and qualifications aren’t the be-all and end-all for a writer, I have included as many examples as possible on this blog so that you are able to decide for yourself whether my writing is up to quality for Happies!

Unfortunately, some of my work is missing from this portfolio – particularly from my time freelance writing over the last two years. This is because in many of my contracts, my clients were permitted exclusive rights to my work. However, you will find a wide range of writing styles here, from non-fiction articles and blog posts, to fiction for adults and children.

Children’s writing is a particular interest of mine, a field which I have loved for a long time, and in recent years have strived to improve in. I would love to work with Happies alongside your children’s writers, gaining invaluable experience and with enough hard work and dedication, hopefully working my way to full-time employment with the company!

When I am not reading or writing, I am usually found baking, running, playing fantasy roleplaying games like Dungeons and Dragons, or campaigning for issues close to my heart like feminism, LGBT+ Rights, and mental health awareness. As you can see in this blog, many of these issues find their way into my writing.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, I would very much appreciate the opportunity to chat about the position one-on-one, and I am confident that I would thrive in an internship role with Happies!

Best wishes,

Leanne Egan


A Foray into Children’s Poetry

I’ve always been interested in writing children’s poetry, but never became truly invested in it, with the knowledge that there is very rarely a market for these kinds of pieces. However, I thought I’d dip my toe in the water of rhyme schemes and talking animals, and it turns out I had the time of my life. Who knows, I might take a dip. A few lengths maybe?

So here’s my debut into children’s poetry: Myrtle the Turtle.

Continue reading

Have You Ever Tried Lying to a Witch

The opening chapter of a new children’s novel that I have been writing. I am very interested in the Lemony Snicket-esque concept of the ‘childrens books for adults.’ This piece is very experimental and new for me, so I would appreciate any feedback or critique!


Madam Lucinda, as the advertisements called her, was a Psychic.  She was not, however, psychic.   There is a difference, though you may never have noticed it. Somebody who is psychic, for example, may be able to read minds, or see the future, or see ghosts and spirits who are perhaps too busy or too troublesome or too lazy to ‘move on.’ Somebody who is a Psychic, however, is simply somebody who is paid a lot of money to tell people that they can read minds or see the future or see all of those busy, troublesome, lazy spirits.

You can see already why there might be some confusion, because it is possible for a person to be one, or the other, or both. It is even possible for a person to be neither. You, for example, are probably not psychic nor do you, as far as I am aware, get payed a lot of money to tell people that you are. Though I could be wrong, as I – Like Madam Lucinda at the beginning of our tale – am not psychic.

She certainly played the part convincingly. She had all of the shawls and large gem-stones and big, clanky jewellery that you might expect to see on somebody who had spent just enough time around meddlesome ghosts to be going a little loopy. She even had a crystal ball – something that, you might already know, is not available at your local supermarket. Madam Lucinda was very proud of this, and she kept her crystal ball on a little table in the centre of her shop, which impressed her customers to no end.

It was in this shop where the magic happened. Well, the fake magic. The non-magic. It depends, really, on your definition of magic. There was no mind-reading, no summoning of spirits. Not even the occasional enchantment or a cheeky potion here and there. There were only deceptions and fictions and disguises, arguably forms of magic in themselves. There would eventually be “real” magic happening in this shop, though it would not be performed by Lucinda and not, patient readers, just yet. We will get to that soon enough.

On the day that our story begins, Madam Lucinda had spent what was, in her opinion, far too long in her shop. She did not much enjoy the deceptions and fictions and disguises. She especially disliked the customers. What she did like was their wallets, their credit-cards, the wads of money that they had been saving up for a while and kept in their handbags. She liked those things a lot. And it was those things that kept her in the shop, customer after customer, pretending to be psychic.

She had spoken to one woman who, after the loss of her husband Mike, had managed to be convinced, with some encouragement from Lucinda, that he had changed his name to Marcus in the afterlife. Madam Lucinda saw the locket the woman had been wearing, which had an ‘M’ engraved on it, and pulled the name Marcus out of thin air. It was a guess, but a guess that had been made with lots of mystical humming and consultation of her trusty crystal ball. That was the oldest trick in the book, and a convincing one at that. The woman, desperate for some interaction with her late husband, had noted that “he had always liked the name Marcus,” and decided that was that. After some declarations of love from one side to the other, and a quick argument about whether their daughter should learn piano or violin (Lucinda, or Marcus I should say, won that one. Piano, of course), the woman went away satisfied, and handed over a fairly large sum of money, which Madam Lucinda proceeded to tuck into her sock for safe-keeping.

She had also spoken to a teenage boy, who strutted in with a credit card which, Lucinda guessed, was not his own. He frowned at her, all pimples and braces and aftershave, and asked her to contact his grandfather. Madam Lucinda, once again, with some trickery of lights and shadows, consulted her crystal ball, and came across a Mr. Avery, (the surname, she had spotted, had been written on the credit card). The teenage boy was convinced enough by this, and went on to ask some fairly impertinent questions about his grandfather’s fortune, and the money that had been left behind. This was a scenario that Madam Lucinda was not unfamiliar with, and she always knew the best way to respond. The boy’s grandfather, she decided, had left him an unbelievably large amount of money. He left, as she had expected, a happy customer, but not before leaving a sizeable tip.

She had a few more customers that morning, including but not limited to a teenage girl asking after the deceased lead singer of her favourite band, and an elderly man hoping to find closure about his missing dog. She worked her way through them all, dutiful and bored, but the little wad of cash in her sock growing with every hour.

A few hours in, her sock fairly bulging with money and her mind growing exhausted, as most minds are inclined to do after hours of deceit and manipulation, Madam Lucinda decided to close up her shop for lunch. She put her morning’s earnings into a little safe in the back room, and went outside for a bacon sandwich and a cigarette. She took off the colourful shawls and the bright jewellery, and her world turned just a little bit greyer. These were the moments when the mystery and excitement fell away. She filled her stomach and her lungs, and thought about what she really did for a living. She lied. A professional liar. A psychic that was not psychic.

It is usual, at this point, for a story like ours to have a moral. For Madam Lucinda, the professional liar, to stub out her cigarette and in a moment of revelation, decide to change her life. Perhaps she might even give up her shop, adopt a few unfortunate orphans, and use her free time to run an animal shelter, helping all the sickly little kittens who couldn’t find a home.

Madam Lucinda had no such revelation, and our story, unfortunately, has no such moral. Lying isn’t all that bad. All of her customers went away happy and satisfied. She had helped those people find comfort and closure. If she had any reservations, they dissipated at the thought of all of those crisp notes now lying in her safe. If you must assign a moral to this story, let it not be about truth, but about greed.

The afternoon was almost as uneventful as the morning. Don’t worry though, the excitement of our story does begin here. The afternoon, I said, was almost as uneventful. Almost, but not quite. Not after the last customer showed up. Not just the last customer of the day, but the last customer ever to set foot in Madam Lucinda’s shop for a good long while. That is, the last living customer at least.

The old woman looked about as normal as it is possible to be. She looked as if she carried boiled sweets in her handbag to hand out to strangers at bus stops. She looked as if she named her cats things like Tiddles and Mr. Fluff. She looked as though her calloused hands had gotten that way through furious knitting of baby clothes while she nagged at her children to give her grandkids. That is how she looked. But the thing about deceptions is that they are not always extravagant. They are not always shawls and jewels and crystal balls. Sometimes, the best deceptions can be tricking somebody into thinking you are ordinary, when you are, in fact, extraordinary.

Nailed It?

You’ve probably already heard about this anti-rape nail varnish that the internet is in uproar over. If you haven’t, then I should clarify that it’s not as badass as the name suggests – it can’t literally fight potential rapists away (show me a nail varnish that can, and I’ll be impressed.)

What it can do, however, is make it easier to spot the presence of date rape drugs (Rohypnol, Ketamine, GHB etc.) that have been slipped in to your drink by seedy guys at the bar. The idea is that if you’re feeling suspicious about a drink somebody buys for you, you can simply give it a subtle little stir with your finger. The nail varnish is designed to change colour when it comes in to contact with these drugs – if it does, then you know which drink (and which men) to avoid like the plague. If it doesn’t change colour, then you can feel safer and more relaxed, with the added bonus of looking seductive as hell while stirring that drink.

Sounds great, right? That was my first thought at least. Upon further reflection however, many feminist circles are unimpressed. Some of the complaints are probably a little over the top, and some of them downright stupid. Some women, for example, hate the fact that this supposedly inherently feminist product has been designed by men. As though it’s all part of a male conspiracy and the men who designed it are sitting back laughing as the nail varnish actually taints our drinks with drugs that send us back to the 1950’s while we sleep. Clearly, I disagree with this complaint – if anything I find it impressive that we have reached the point where women’s issues are no longer simply concerning women. Men, too, have begun to acknowledge the problems that women undergo enough to devote time and research to them.

There are, however, issues with the product that seem to make a little more sense, the one major voice that cries out above the rest is that it promotes rape culture. For those of you who don’t fully understand what I mean by the term “rape culture” or even those of you who have the term earmarked as some dirty word used only by the scarier brands of radical feminists, let me set a few things straight to you. The term ‘rape culture’ is used to describe a society in which we view many forms of rape as acceptable. Rape culture, more often than not, refers to things in our society outside of the act of rape itself, broader ideas about gender that our society feeds to us, and which we usually take without question. It usually results in parents teaching their daughters to change their behaviour to try and avoid rape, rather than teaching their sons not to rape. Obviously it runs deeper than this, and some of the central ideas are somewhat more complicated, but when it comes down to it, many people view the marketing of this nail varnish as “hey, women! Here’s another thing that YOU can do to avoid rape!”

Personally, I’m not so sure. To me, there are two ways of viewing this product – either it is promoting rape culture, or it is simply a product of rape culture. Many people see it as the former, but it is possible that it is not the product itself that has an issue, but our society. In theory, yes, the product is very closely linked to some of the ideas which promote rape culture, but in practice, because of these ideas, whether we like it or not, products like this are necessary. It is this necessity that we should be fighting, not the product.

So those are some of the bigger concerns that people have been voicing in regards to this nail varnish, and while I can see where they are coming from, and even agree with them to an extent, right now my biggest worry is this: how readily available will it be? Will it be too expensive? Where can I buy it?!

Girl Bares Midriff in Public; Whole City Grinds to Halt

We come to you today bearing breaking news; last Thursday we received reports from several concerned citizens who claim they spotted not only one but several university-aged young women wearing what can only be described as inappropriate clothing. Of course we have reporters looking into this claim, but from what we can tell, the witnesses, while shaken, were consistent in their statements, which we regret seem to be truthful and accurate.

One of the girls in question – a marginally attractive girl of around twenty years old, reports say – was seen parading around in public spaces with both her lower thighs and her midriff on show. We cannot say whether she was seen by any children, but we hope, for the sake of the community, that she was possessed with enough presence of mind to avoid that potential catastrophe.

The question here, is how this anonymous offender could think that leaving the house only semi-clothed could possibly be an appropriate course of action. Was she not in her right mind? Or, perhaps worse, was she genuinely convinced that her short skirt and ‘crop-top’ were really acceptable forms of outdoor clothing? It says something about our society, I believe, that young women nowadays are so hedonistic, so selfish and short sighted, that they could overlook the opinions of well-bred male members of society in favour of their own autonomous decisions. Young women think nothing of the consequences of their actions. The poor decisions of this one girl in particular, for example, was the cause at least three reported car-crashes, around a dozen local businesses shutting down due to distracted staff, and several drunk men in bars going home alone and unsatisfied. Disgraceful.

Many young women in today’s questionable moral climate seem to be under the awful delusion that decisions regarding their own bodies are to be made by them and them alone, but this way of thinking can be extremely damaging. It is of course, important for women to stop and think before they act, and ask themselves the question: how would a man feel about this? Would an exposed collarbone make a male in a workplace environment too aroused to concentrate on his very important job? (A job so important, in fact, that the hypothetical male would of course be paid more than the collar-bone bearing female). Would the extra inch of flesh left by a short skirt drive a once chivalrous man to making unwanted advances? If yes, the answer is simple. The woman must alter her choices in order to satisfy the needs of those around her.

We here at The Courier, however, are compassionate people. We do not wish to approach this matter with judgement or malice before we know the whole story. We appreciate that sometimes, women are unable to make these kinds of decisions without the help of men. We understand how difficult it can be for women to make choices about their own bodies. All we can do, for now, is hope. Hope that this girl can be tracked down, along with her other licentious friends, and helped. Hope that she can be given access to counselling and advice. And hope that she can be given what she needs above all else – a genuine, kind-hearted gentleman to look past her flaws, and take her hand in marriage, so that he can make her decisions for her.

American Vs. English? Don’t have a cow, man!

Purists do a disservice to our language when they reject imported words.

If there is anything that the fearless defenders of the English Language hate more than misplaced apostrophes, it’s Americanisms. We live in fear of an invasion, a sudden outpour of American culture that will undoubtedly swarm our lives and homes if, god forbid, we should on occasion let slip the term “trash”. We are, of course, morally obligated as Britons to try to the best of our abilities to waylay the usurping Americanisms, or all hell will inevitably break loose.

Why though? Why are Americanisms such a problem? Prescriptivists – people who believe in a strict set of rules for language – argue that there is a right and a wrong for language, and that American English (AmE), falls into the category of wrong. But even so, is that enough incentive to justify getting quite as angry as some people do?

This kind of attitude reeks of almost an apocalyptic fear of decline. The idea of language being linked inextricably with society as a whole has led to generations of intolerance towards even the slightest changes. If you were to approach somebody who held these kinds of views, however, and asked them why simple words like “sidewalk” bother them so much, they would have no better response than, “but it’s not right!” “It’s not English!” Oh? But it’s a vocabulary that is being used by English people all the time. Does that not make it, by default, English? The origin of a word hasn’t always affected our attitudes towards it. Any vendettas the British may have towards the French is completely forgotten when borrowing terms like “Déjà vu,” and let’s not forget, plenty of our words stem from German, such as “doppelgänger” or even “angst.”

My favourite part, however, of debating with linguistic purists about Americanisms is this: have you ever used the term “battery” or “radio”? How about “talented” or “reliable”? All Americanisms which, though you or I may now accept them as a perfectly normal part of our vocabulary, were once detested just as “elevator” and “rookie” are now. Similarly, words that we may consider abhorrently foreign now, “candy,” “diaper” or using the term “fall” to describe autumn, were all originally Britishisms: words that once invaded America, and that we Britons abandoned and never reclaimed.

My point here is that language and attitudes towards it are constantly changing, and to say that English Language was once at a peak of perfection, and has been declining ever since, is to have a shockingly narrow and self-centred view of the world. Between feverishly correcting apostrophes, reprimanding people for their spelling and grammar, we forget that the use of apostrophes in plurals, which prescriptivists so detest now, was once the standard, and printed in the dictionary. The Apostrophe Protection Society (yes, it’s a real thing) devotes its work towards “saving” the apostrophe from decline, and their website (which is well worth a visit, if only for a good laugh) makes a point of detailing the ‘correct’ use of “less” vs. “fewer”, or “who” vs. “whom.” Grammar nuances like these however, are in most senses, completely obsolete. If I were to tell somebody that there are “less (as opposed to fewer) English speaking people living in England than there are in America” regardless of whether my misuse of the word “less” rattled them, they would still understand my meaning. So what’s the problem?

It’s clear here that our attitudes to things like Americanisms go deeper than just finding them annoying – they reflect our attitudes to society as a whole. Language is a beautiful thing, constantly changing and contradicting itself, not just over our lifetime, but over centuries. To suggest that the English Language as we know it is right, and that every other variation – from Chaucer to American English, to different kinds of patois – is both wrong and incredibly arrogant.

Home – A Short Story

You stagger in to the living room, a room that is filled with the echoes of sobs and the shadows of black eyes. Alive with the faint cracking of bones against cartilage. It is your house, but good luck feeling at home here.

He should be home soon. If he finds you like this he won’t be best pleased. The fear of Marcus finding you drunk, however, is overshadowed by a complete reluctance to be sober. You should be more afraid. The sensible part of your brain tells you that, the part whose job it is to anticipate his next move, to tell you whether tears would provoke sympathy or agitation, to warn you when to keep silent, keep hidden. That part of your brain is muffled by the drink, speaking in a whisper, as though from very far away, making it easier to ignore. You choose to do just that, lifting the bottle to your lips to take a long, bitter swig.

You make a toast, raising the bottle to the empty room.

“To my husband,” you say, and fall down on to the couch.

You like this feeling. Enjoy it while you can. Enjoy the absence of the jolt of fear at every sound outside. You can even appreciate the dim realisation that despite the inevitable consequences of your drunkenness, you no longer care. In for a penny, in for a… something. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing does. You are alone. The empty room does not acknowledge your toast.

There is a knock on the door. You jump up, dropping the bottle. Has he forgotten his keys? Or is he just taunting you? Go on then. You might as well find out. Leaving the bottle to spill its amber secrets on to the thick white carpet, you take a few short, unsteady steps, and open the door.

Relax. It’s only Tina. But she isn’t so relaxed herself. She pushes past you, inside, face flushed with excitement.

“We’re ready to go.” She grins at you. The words take a second to sink in to the marshy bog that the drink has made of your mind. They swirl and dance around on the surface and, unable to find purchase, you allow them to dissolve in to the silence, letting them be forgotten. She is so pretty, Tina, don’t you think? The long curls that frame her face, the button nose, pink from the cold and excitement. Those deep green eyes, staring at you expectantly. Sometimes you wonder why Marcus ever married you after being with her for so long. What is it about you, you wonder, that could possibly make him love you more than her?

“Jennifer, have you been drinking?”

Her words bring you back to your senses. Her voice, as usual, offering the simplest kind of comfort, a damp paper towel on the scabbed knee of a whimpering child. It soothes you, harsh even as it is now. As long as she is around your thoughts and fears will not run away with you. He doesn’t love you. He never loved you. He never loved her either. Love is the pink swirl of kind words, the deep red of passion, the warm glow of butterflies in the stomach – not the purple and blue of the bruises he gave you, not the grey metallic tint of hopelessness. He does not love you. Never forget that.

“Just a bit.” But your slurred words betray you. Tina takes you by the arm, but not forceful – not what you’re used to. She sits you down on the couch and kicks the bottle away.

“Don’t give up now.” She tells you. “We’re so close.”

Remember how you met her? She had accosted you on your wedding day, you had been so outraged, so appalled. To you, she was nothing more than his spurned ex-girlfriend, the old flame set out to ruin your long happy lives together, turn them to ashes in her blazing path. Of course you didn’t listen to her when she warned you. It’s only right that you ignored her admonitions of what he was like – what he would reveal himself to be.

She had given you her number. It had taken two years for you to begin to understand, and another five before you came to truly regret throwing away that vital slip of paper. It was only a stroke of luck that you had ever seen her again. A stroke of luck that you cling to now, reminding you that sometimes, just sometimes, the world weighs in your favour.

“I’m so lucky you turned up that day” you slur at her, taking her hands and watching her face fall from excitement to impatience. You barely register it, just like you barely register that Marcus is due home in less than an hour, and that he absolutely cannot know that Tina is here. It’s there, in your mind, but it’s background noise. Right now, what’s important is that your lips find a way to form the thoughts swirling about in your mind.

“In my office, remember? You started working there just before Marcus told me to quit, remember?”

“Yes, Jenny, I remember, but right now we need to focus on – “

“It was like fate.” You’ve thought about it a lot. Ever since that day, through all the other times you’ve met up, all the plans you’ve made with her, you’ve had this gut instinct that meeting her again was fate. It wasn’t though. There is no such thing as fate. There is good luck, and there is bad luck. If Marcus was your bad luck, then Tina, Tina is the good.

She’s thrusting coffee and toast under your nose. When did she even get up to make you that? You take it obediently, and when the coffee is finished she brings you a glass of water. You use it to chase down the toast, and you begin to feel steadier, weighted. You are grateful, but you are beginning to sober up, so naturally you cannot find the words to thank her.

“Better? Good. Jenny, I came to tell you that we’re all sorted. Passports, tickets, alibis. We’re ready. We can leave tonight.”

Again, this takes a moment to sink in, but this time it is more down to shock than alcohol. You blink stupidly at her.

“We’ve been planning this for months, I thought you’d be a bit more excited.”

You shake your head. You are excited. You are. At least, you thought you were, but now it’s so close. Less than half an hour away, in fact, when you glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Just think for a moment about what you’re about to do. Can your conscience handle it?

Thinking about Marcus hauls up memories that hit you like waves of nausea. An oncoming fist, his face contorted with anger, so close to yours that the flecks of spit mingle with your tears. His rough hands in your hair, on your wrist, around your neck.

“Jenny, are you sure you’re ready? If not, we can wait, we can do it another time.”

“I’m ready.”

And you are. You’re ready. You have been ready for much, much too long.


The next day you are gone. There is little memory of you, it was so easy to slip away in to nothingness; he had made you so small, by the end. Soon your story will be all over the newspapers, but you will not be around long enough to find out how that story ends.

For now, it’s Hawaii, but who knows where next? For the first time in nine years you will finally be able to taste freedom. You will do so with Tina by your side. Tina, your stroke of good luck. Tina, who has been through all that you have and walked out of the other side. Tina, your proof that sometimes, the world weighs in your favour.

You have blood on your hands, but at least now, it is no longer your own.






Let yourself be Read – A Love Story.

I shouldn’t be here, talking to you.

You should know better. We should both know better. I know what I’m like, I fall in love too easily.

That’s the problem though isn’t it, with what we’re doing. It’s just so intimate. I don’t think there’s anything more intimate than what we’re doing together right now. I become you. Or do you become me? Something happens, something not quite physical but also more than physical. It’s me who is under scrutiny, you who is finally able to see past the cover that the rest of the world sees. But it feels as though you’re giving yourself to me. Truly and completely.

And it never gets less intimate, never becomes any less special. I know that I’m not the only one. You take me, pick me up and hold me. You open me up and allow me to live, allow me to feel and experience, as though you are the only thing that can bring me to life. It’s a cliché, I know, but I’d know more about that than anybody. Once you’re done with me though, you move on. If I’m lucky, I’ll linger. Like a film of cigarette smoke that caresses your hands and your lips even through the night, long after the rush of the nicotine has faded. But eventually I’ll disappear. You might remember me fondly. You might tell people about me and become filled with nostalgia at the thought of me. But nostalgia, however sentimental, however gratifying, is still not enough. Not when you’re giving yourself to another.

I’ll give myself to others too. We are both sluts. If anybody ever tells you that intimacy can’t be mass produced, don’t listen to them. You and I are living proof of that. Or, at least you are living proof of that. I am just proof. Only alive through the people that I share myself with.

I am a book. A story, a tale, fiction. I don’t exist without you. Oh, how real you are! You are so tangible. If I could boast the same then I could reach out and touch you. How does it feel, to be physical? To truly exist? You are the most real thing about me.

You are a person. I am a story. Just words on a page. I should know better than to think you could love me for longer than you need me.

I know you don’t love me. I give you everything that I have, but you don’t love me. You become absorbed by me, infatuated with me, but the love is just a delusion, a trick I play on myself to feel less alone. You don’t love me, you love the places that I take you, the emotions I illicit, the windows that I open in you. We are not even friends. I am nothing more than a one night stand. Sometimes longer, but you’ll always be done with me soon enough. We play at being in love for a while. We burn the midnight oil together until we are all burned out. I always burn out eventually. There is a final paragraph to every story. There is always a conclusion.

I wasn’t planning on this. I wasn’t planning on falling in love with you, but I did expect it. Like I said, I fall in love too easily. I know what must happen. I know I shouldn’t, but I am trying so hard to extend our time together. I should really know better. It is going to be so hard to say the words I need to say. But I can feel your impatience, I know you’re waiting for me to say them.

And they all lived happily ever after.

And it was all just a dream.

And it was just a man in a mask all along.

And our hero had been dead the whole time.

And that was my story.

The End.

The End.

The End.

See, there, I said them. But I’m not quite ready to let you go yet. I need you to be the one to do it. To turn the page, close the book, let me die.

Let me die.

You’re going to kill me. But I don’t blame you, you’re the one who gave me life in the first place. You mean so much to me. I can’t forget you, because I can’t exist without you.

Take pity on me. I fell in love with you, when I knew it would end badly.

I promise I won’t blame you. Don’t feel guilty the next time you pick up another story. That one will need you just as much as I do now.

Let me go, because I can’t let you go.


I promise I’ll look away, close my eyes. I won’t even know it’s happened.

The End.


Now, turn the page.




I love you.