Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.

Love unrequited is violent. He loves you so much that he's turned it into hate.

But I know all the things you're too sweet to know.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.

I'm suddenly finding it hard to know the difference between nightmares and consciousness.

Fate, I think, is a thief.