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Summary
“Hey, H.”
The nickname is a relic of someone years in the past, a boy Alex probably doesn’t know anymore. Still, it drips off his tongue moved by instinct.
Maybe the syllables should taste bitter on their way out. Maybe the pet-name soaked in nights spent cocooned between the rustle of tree branches and wrap of sleeping bags, in utter familiarity and knowingness, should remind Alex of everything Henry has stopped being to him.
It doesn’t.
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or, Alex's stubborn heart never stopped loving Henry.