I watch her do the simplest things: brushing her hair into a ponytail, feeding the dog, tying Sophie's shoelaces, and I want to tell her what she means to me, but I never actually say the words. After all, to acknowledge Delia as a drug, I'd have to face the fact that one day I might have to go without her and this I can't do.

It is strange to think that we might have crossed paths, and still not have known what we were missing.

I had the heart of the relationship, and no body to grow it in... It broke.

History could hover, like a faint perfume or a memory stamped on the back of one's eyelids.

You're unwilling to go out on a limb because it just might break underneath you.

What if the one I choose to discount is one who has been truly hurt?

A lot of the hallmark behaviors of autism - flat affect, stimming, not looking someone in the eye - could very easily be misinterpreted as signs of guilt.