Why could we say more to each other when it counted less?

These things...they are who you are. They brought you here. To this day. You didn't give me a chance to understand that ever the unattractive parts of you, the messy parts, were something I could accept.

Why does it take fear to move you? Why does it take chaos to make us understand exactly what we need to do?

You can't finish the things you weren't supposed to start.

Belief isn't supposed to make sense, at least not all the time. In that, it finds its power. It gets to creep up on you and carry you forward. Until you can carry yourself again.

We loved each other in the same difficult, unusable way where you took turns doing it, instead of ever managing to do it at the same time.

I couldn't help but wonder if that was what love was -- believing that someone was going to come through, in the end, and that it would still count