Tell me a way you think this can work." "We'll find a way," I tell her. "That's not an answer. It's a hope." "Hope's gotten us this far. Not answers.

I'll see you later, he says, and as he does, he runs his finger briefly over my wrist. It passes over me like air, and makes me shiver like a kiss.

And I'm moved, it's so beautiful. Not what I wrote, but to have it given back like this. To have her remember the words and the tune. To hear it in her voice.

Because when something happens, she's the person I want to tell. The most basic indicator of love.

After a while, you have to be at peace with the fact that you simple are

Moments into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days. Days into years. Years into possibility. This will linger.

I have become very good at clearing histories.