she belonged to me,” chris said simply. “she was, you know, all the things i wasn’t. and i was all the things she wasn’t. she could paint circles around anyone; i can’t even draw a straight line. she was never into sports; i’ve always been.” chris lifted his outstretched palm and curled his fingers. “her hand,” he said. “it fit mine.”
- j picoult - the pact (via cultivate-romance)
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