It's just accidental, just temporary. Until the next accident sends me somewhere new. That's how life works.

I don't really care. I shouldn't have to care. I shouldn't have to work this hard. I realize now that dying is easy. Living is hard.

I want you to play me like a cello.

My stomach lurched, an appetizer before the full portion of heartache I had a feeling was going to be served at some point soon.

That’s the thing you never expect about grieving, what a competition it is.

My first impulse is not to grab her or kiss her or yell at her. I simple want to touch her cheek, still flushed from the night's performance. I want to cut through the space that separates us, measured in feet-not miles, not continents, not years-and to take a callused finger to her face.

Because if time can be fluid, then maybe something that is just one day can go on indefinitely