"Gifts pass through hands—lovers' hands, crushes' hands, and sometimes, they end up in the trash."
It was drizzling, the kind of soft rain that sneaks under your skin without warning. Lieselotte clutched the necklace she had bought for Katelynn. The red velvet box slipped from her hands earlier, and now one corner was crushed, the dent sharp against her thumb as she pressed on it, harder and harder, as if grounding herself through that little imperfection. The rain soaked through her shirt, sliding in slow, cold drops from her hair to her shoulders, down her arms, and off her fingertips, as if the sky itself were weeping along with her.
It wasn't even that cold—but somehow, the chill ran deep, like it was crawling through her veins. Was it the wind that made her shiver, or the ache hollowing out her chest? She couldn't tell.
