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.

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

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

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

We have to figure out how to let go, and forgive. This is our job.

It's harder to appreciate what you don't have to look hard to find.

There are words and there are feelings and somewhere between where the two meet is the truth