Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.

I put my forehead on his collarbone, place one hand on his chest. Its rhythm reassures me: He is real, and he is now.

I love you. Remember. They cannot take it

I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.

This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.

A room full of words that are nearly the truth but not quite, each note fluttering off the steam of its rose like a broken butterfly wing.

You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.