SANDRA'S POV
Twenty-three years shouldn't matter this much.
The problem is that it does.
Because every time I start forgetting, every time I catch myself replaying one of Kelvin's messages or remembering the way he looked at me in the gallery, the number crashes back into my head hard enough to make my chest tighten.
He's forty-three.
I'm twenty.
And somehow knowing that still hasn't made me stop wanting to see him.
I stare at my reflection while brushing my hair before class, and the thought follows me even then because forty-three sounds like someone who should be discussing retirement plans and investment portfolios while twenty sounds like somebody still trying to survive architecture presentations and caffeine addiction, yet every conversation I've had with Kelvin felt easier t
