K.L. Walther

“Nice try, baby.”

She and her wife

“Stephen?”
“Stephen.”
I’d pretended to consider before launching a tickle attack.
Sarah had introduced us to Taylor Swift’s early albums that summer

“Please, I need you. You know how much I need you. After everything…”

“You’re still my favorite girl to have on my arm.”

“I didn’t want you to come,”

“I didn’t want you to come,”

“I wanted my boyfriend—my boyfriend—to come, not my shithead ex!”

“She’s making the sun shine.”

“I wish Claire were here,”