He loves so wholly. It is his nature. He blinks, then tries to find the right response. "I-" he stumbles. "I'm so afraid, June. So afraid of what might happen to-" I put two fingers against his lips to hush him. "Fear makes you stronger," I whisper. Before I can stop myself, I put my hands on his face and press my mouth to his.

Then I realize from the hollow sound of her gun's click that her gun isn't loaded. Apparently she just wants to slap me around with it.

I'd once been fascinated by his legend - all the stories I'd heard before I met him. Now I can feel that same sense of fascination returning. I picture his face, so beautiful even after pain and torture and grief, his blue eyes bright and sincere. I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed my brief time with him in his prison cell. His voice can make me forget about all the details running through my mind, bringing with it emotions of desire, or fear instead, sometimes even anger, but always triggering something. Something that wasn't there before.

I started writing seriously when I was a teenager, around 14 years old.

Sometimes, the sun sets earlier. Days don’t last forever, you know. But I’ll fight as hard as I can. I can promise you that.

Time heals all wounds. But not this one. Not yet.

You're brilliant,"he says."But you're a fool to stay with someone like me." I close my eyes at the touch of his hand."Then we are both fools.