People are rarely as attractive in reality as they are in the eyes of the people who are in love with them. Which is, I suppose, as it should be.

Is that all we need? Can the way we say each other's names encompass all our history, all our love, all our fear, all our fights, all our reunions, all of what we know about each other, all of what we don't know?

I've worn black today, because I've heard so often that it's supposed to be slimming. But instead I am this sphere of darkness submarining through the halls.

this might be the happy ending without the ending

I love you,” she says. “I love you,” I say. And then we hang up, because nothing else needs to be said after that. I want to give Zara her life back. Even if I feel I deserve something like this, I don’t deserve it at her expense.

Love weaves itself from hundreds of threads.

It's the secret smile you get from knowing that, somewhere, there is someone who is yours. Not in the sense that you own her or control her. She is yours because you can say anything to her, whenever you need to. And she can do the same, whenever she needs to.