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  • Her hair smelt like a sunny morning in midwinter.

    That is, if such a day could have a smell, and if she wouldn't mind being compared in such a way.
    I could talk about the way I studied her face, how it creased when she laughed in the most glorious way, as if she'd never heard anything funnier. I could talk about the way she carried herself, with convicted self-belief which would crumble only at the privacy of those she trusted most. I could even talk about the lurches in my stomach which would onset at the mere thought of her being.

    But I choose to talk about the smell of her hair, because it smelt like sanctuary. It smelt like home.
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