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  • They're like scenes from The Notebook; so annoyingly perfect they must surely have been imagined.

    Like the smell of season change; exciting and relieving but nervy at the same time.

    Like the sound you pretend those tiny flakes of white make when they land on the windmill in the snow dome.

    Like happy tears on your cheek; you want to bottle them for safe-keeping. But you leave them on your skin because they make you feel alive.

    Weekends with you are like holidays from reality.

    But even better. Because on Monday, reality with you is actually pretty damned good.
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