"guess who's going to stockholm this april? 13th-18th!!! am staying on a boat! will go to the birger jarl (correct hotel?!) and have a coffee in the lobby."
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Even though I was a heartless bitch to you (or perhaps just too young) and even though you might never (want to) see me again and even though I might never (get the chance to) explain myself fully to you I will still wish that you could walk in through the doors, sunlight wreathing the collar of your white shirt, look at me, and smile.
Sudden, twisting, gut wrenching nostalgia.
Post script -
It took you five minutes to text back?! And you remember my red scarf?! And you called me angel again?! And you said brilliant memories?!
And what's with the odd punctuation?!
Well my heart got ripped into two with two texts, one from me and one from you: one part is printed with question marks, the other is dotted with exclamation points.
As always, with you. It's one or the other, and no answers in between.
My red scarf.
If I wore it, would you come then?
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