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When I think of our past, I don’t imagine it as a love story. Brooke Eastham was beautiful, rich, and completely out of my league, but I was okay with that. I knew where I belonged and where my family ranked on the ladder of success. I wasn’t looking to disrupt the order, but Cape Cod in the summer held an aura of magic, and every clear image and boundary was blurred by teenage inhibitions. When the fog cleared, we would step back into our rightful places until the magnetic vibrations in our hearts could no longer be ignored, and we would snap back together. The seed of our relationship was planted in the sand along the beach, and the roots grew out to the ocean, only to be swallowed up by the currents before it had a chance to bloom. Our fates were so intricately intertwined, the threads of our futures closely weaving together to make a tapestry of beautiful colors, telling a story of young love, loss, and ultimately, forgiveness. This isn’t an epic love story. It’s a tragic burn of lust-fueled summers and cold, lonely winters. A cautionary tale of the heart’s current as it drags you under the crashing waves of infatuation, only to let you sink to the bottom of despair.

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