Loving someone is such an inherently dangerous act. And yet, love, that’s where safety lives.

I don't know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don't want to be her anymore.

Can you move on from something when you're not sure what it is you're moving on from?

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.

You just work through it. You just hang in there.

Something special is ending, and you're sad, but you can't be that said because, hey, it was good while it lasted, and there'll be other vacations, other good times.

Please Mia," he implores. "Don't make me write a song.