You don’t share me. You own me.

You?' is all I can manage to choke out. 'Always me,' she replies softly, bashfully. 'Who else?

I just wanted to tell you that I understand if you go. It’s okay if you have to leave us. It’s okay if you want to stop fighting.

And our lips. There isn't enough skin, enough spit, enough time, for the lost years that our lips are trying to make up for as they find each other. We kiss. The electric current switches to high. The lights throughout all of Brooklyn must be surging.

I want to ask him where that kitchen is. Where he's from. But he seems guarded. Or maybe it's me. Maybe making friends is a specific skill, and I missed the lesson.

Leaving people to jumped conclusions is sometimes simpler than explaining a complicated truth

Life might take you down different roads. But each of you gets to decide which one to take.