If you want to know someone's story, they have to tell it aloud. But every time, the telling is a little but different. It's new, even to me.

It was always easier for me to show love than to say it. The word reminded me of pralines: small, precious, almost unbearable sweet. I would light up in his presence; I felt like a sun in the constellation of his embrace. But trying to put what I felt for him into words diminished it somehow, like pinning a butterfly under glass, or videotaping a comet.

Sometimes it made her want to put her fist through glass; other times, it made her cry a river.

A photo says, you were happy, and I wanted to catch that. A photo says, you were so important to me that I put down everything else to come watch.

I know how difficult it can be when the image you've had of something doesn't match its reality; when the friend beside you turns into a monster.

is it like this every night, while we're asleep?

Whether or not you believe in Fate comes down to one thing: who do you blame when something goes wrong.