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“You know that when your partner deletes their messages to a past lover after being accused of cheating, then it is likely that they were being unfaithful in some way.”

WayLovePastComputerMessagesLettersNotesAffairPartnersInstantRemoveCheatingPartnershipCheatLoverEmailBeingAccusedKnowEraseLetterOldPartnerFacebookFlameUnfaithfulMessageAffairsCheaterTheySomeUnfaithfulnessProbablyMessengerThenNoteRemovedLikelyAccuseProbableDeleteAffairs Of HeartFriends With BenefitsErasedPartner AbusePartnershipsDeletedImUnfaithful Partner
Author:Steven Magee
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“I stalked into the moonlit garden and lost myself in its labyrinth of hedges and flower beds. I didn't care where I was going. After a while, I paused in the rose garden. The moonlight stained the red petals a deep purple and cast a silvery sheen on the white blooms. 'My father had this garden planted for my mother,' Tamlin said from behind me. I didn't bother to face him. I dug my nails into my palms as he stopped by my side. 'It was a mating present.' I stared the flowers without seeing anything. The flowers I'd painted on the table at home were probably crumbling or gone by now. Nesta might have even scraped them off. My nails pricked the skin of my palms. Tamlin providing for them or no, glamouring their memories or no, I'd been... erased from their lives. Forgotten. I'd let him erase me. He'd offered me paints and the space and time to practice; he'd shown me pools of starlight; he'd saved my life like some kind of feral knight in a legend, and I'd gulped it down like faerie wine.”

ForgottenSarah J MaasUpsetFeyreFeyre ArcheronMoonlightA Court Of Thorns And RosesTamlinRose GardenErased
Book:A Court of Thorns and Roses
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“The sun is high, the day hot, and she lays the dress out in the grass to dry, sinks onto the slope besides it in her shift. They sit, side by side in silence, one a ghost of the other. And she realizes, looking down, that this is all she has. A dress. A slip. A pair of stolen shoes. Restless, she takes up a stick and begins to draw absent patterns in the silt along the bank. But every stroke she makes dissolves, the change too quick to be the river's doing. She draws a line, watches it begin to wash away before she even finishes the mark. Tries to write her name, but her hand stills, pinned under the same rock that held her tongue. She carves a deeper line, gouges out the sand, but it makes no difference, soon that groove is gone, too, and an angry sob escapes her throat as she casts the stick away.”

DrawingNameErased
Book:The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue
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