Если я останусь
4:57 A.M.
EventhoughIknow,ifwetouch,anewtug-of-war—onethatwillbeevenmorepainfulthanthequietoneAdamandIhavebeenwagingthesepastfewmonths—willbegin.
Adamismumblingsomethingnow.Inalowvoice.Overandoverheissaying:please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Finally,hestopsandlooksatmyface."Please,Mia,"heimplores."Don’tmakemewriteasong."
I’dneverexpectedtofallinlove.IwasneverthekindofgirlwhohadcrushesonrockstarsorfantasiesaboutmarryingBradPitt.IsortofvaguelyknewthatonedayI’dprobablyhaveboyfriends(incollege,ifKim’spredictionwasanythingtogoby)andgetmarried.Iwasn’ttotallyimmunetothecharmsoftheoppositesex,butIwasn’toneofthoseromantic,swoonygirlswhohadpinkfluffydaydreamsaboutfallinginlove.
EvenasIwasfallinginlove—fullthrottle,intense,can’t-erase-that-goofy-smilelove—Ididn’treallyregisterwhatwashappening.WhenIwaswithAdam,atleastafterthosefirstfewawkwardweeks,IfeltsogoodthatIdidn’tbotherthinkingaboutwhatwasgoingonwithme,withus.Itjustfeltnormalandright,likeslippingintoahotbubblebath.Whichisn’ttosaywedidn’tfight.Wearguedoverlotsofstuff:himnotbeingniceenoughtoKim,mebeingantisocialatshows,howfasthedrove,howIstolethecovers.Igotupsetbecauseheneverwroteanysongsaboutme.
