“They say every snowflake is different— but the blizzard, it covers us all the same. A friend in Norway told me a story about a painter who went out during a storm, searching for the right shade of green, and never returned
I’m writing you because I’m not the one leaving, but the one coming back, empty-handed.”

This is the most beautiful fucking book I have ever read. It hit me somewhere in the heart, stomach, and head.
I’m not sure if it is a good thing to say that I relate to some of the factors in this book but I do. And maybe that’s why it hit me the way it did, but despite, still an awfully gorgeous book.
I find it difficult to talk or write reviews about books I truly enjoy, that’s a pattern I’ve noticed, this is one of them. There aren’t words that exist that could explain what I feel about this book, because like…holy shit.
I can’t think clearly, the limit of perspective and story has me on edge and I love it. It causes me to think deep, causes me to think about how much more this character struggled with the grief, the love, the hate, the rest of the feelings that we didn’t get.
The part that really got me was how incredibly fucking poetically beautiful this is while still managing to tell a whole ass story. God, I won’t ever forget this book.