How many times could you give up on someone you loved?

I'm writing this down, because it is going to be hard for me to say it. Because this is probably our last time just us. See, I can write that down, but I don't think I can say it. I'm not doing this to say goodbye, though I know that has to be part of it. I'm doing it to thank you for all we have had and done and been for one another, to say I love you for making this life of mine what it is. Leaving you is the hardest thing I have to do. But the thing is, the best parts of me are in you, all three of you. You are who I am, and what I cherish in myself stays on in you.

She wasn’t sure if he wanted more from her or if he wanted less. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was always both.

He'd pushed her. He'd scared her. He'd besieged her. He'd vowed he wouldn't, and he did.

She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?

The most haunting thing was not that he didn't love her anymore. She could have accepted that eventually. The most haunting thing was that he did. He loved her from afar. He loved her in a way that was preserved in time, that couldn't be sullied. And she tended it in her careful, curatorial way.

You know what the secret is? It's so simple. We love one another. We're nice to one another. Do you know how rare that is? - Carmen