An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
— . . . . . [—shhhhshhhh—shhhhhshhhh—shhhhshhhh—] There was a quote that Alex read once, about recognizing yourself in someone else. It went like this: Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. Like knows like. She'd felt like that about Jonas, at the start; she still feels like that about him now, if she's honest about it. It'd been like he'd made the fractured puzzle pieces inside of her click back together. It's pretty sappy and pretty gross, but he—gets it. Gets her. Gets what she needs and what she wants, and figures that it's probably pretty close to what he needs and wants. It's why they've stuck it out this long. Why they're gonna keep sticking it out, probably. Point is, though: The woman sitting at the bus stop in her bright yellow puffer jacket? With her hard mouth and her narrowed eyes, and her backpack, and the radio in her fist? Yeah. Alex knows that look.
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