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“Simon Snow, it hurts to look at you when you’re this happy.
And it hurts to look at you when you’re
depressed.
There’s no safe time for me to see you, nothing about you that doesn’t tear my heart from my chest and leave it breakable outside my body.”
― Wayward Son
And it hurts to look at you when you’re
depressed.
There’s no safe time for me to see you, nothing about you that doesn’t tear my heart from my chest and leave it breakable outside my body.”
― Wayward Son
“So hot,” Simon says. “Got to see you fight without picking a fight with you myself.
[...]
“I promise to be just as hot later,” I say. “I’ll start fires all the way across the Midwest.”
―
[...]
“I promise to be just as hot later,” I say. “I’ll start fires all the way across the Midwest.”
―
“Simon looks over at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“What?!” he shouts. He can’t hear a thing I’m saying over the wind and the engine and the classic rock.
“I hate this fucking car!” I shout back.
“The sun is burning me! I might actually catch fire, at any moment!” The wind is blowing Simon’s hair straight, and he’s squinting—from the sun and from all the smiling.
“What!” he shouts at me again.
“You’re so beautiful!” I shout back.
He turns the radio down, so now there’s just the wind and the engine noise to shout over.
“What’d you say?!”
“Nothing!”
―
“Nothing,” I say.
“What?!” he shouts. He can’t hear a thing I’m saying over the wind and the engine and the classic rock.
“I hate this fucking car!” I shout back.
“The sun is burning me! I might actually catch fire, at any moment!” The wind is blowing Simon’s hair straight, and he’s squinting—from the sun and from all the smiling.
“What!” he shouts at me again.
“You’re so beautiful!” I shout back.
He turns the radio down, so now there’s just the wind and the engine noise to shout over.
“What’d you say?!”
“Nothing!”
―
“Simon takes my elbow. "Ride with me," he says, looking at the place where his hand is touching my arm. "There are stars.”
―
―
“He looks away from me, covering his mouth.
“What are you laughing at.”
He looks down, but waves his hand at me. “You—your—”
I refuse to look down at myself. “My what, Snow?”
“Your hair.”
I refuse to touch my hair.
“You look like that guy, with the wig—” He mimes playing the piano. “Duh, duh, duh, duhhh.”
“Beethoven?”
“I don’t know his name. With the big wig. There was a film about him.”
“Mozart. You’re saying I look like Mozart.”
“You’ve got to look, Baz, it’s a scream.”
―
“What are you laughing at.”
He looks down, but waves his hand at me. “You—your—”
I refuse to look down at myself. “My what, Snow?”
“Your hair.”
I refuse to touch my hair.
“You look like that guy, with the wig—” He mimes playing the piano. “Duh, duh, duh, duhhh.”
“Beethoven?”
“I don’t know his name. With the big wig. There was a film about him.”
“Mozart. You’re saying I look like Mozart.”
“You’ve got to look, Baz, it’s a scream.”
―
zarish’s 2025 Year in Books
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