I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.

Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

For a moment, I panic. It's that feeling of falling when you know without question, that you've lost control of your car, or made a mistake that's beyond repair. 'What do I do now?' I ask desperately. 'Tell me! What do I do now?' He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, 'Keep living, Ed... It's only the pages that stop here.

Even death has a heart.

I looked at myself in that window, oblivious to all the people around me and I stared and smiled that particular smile. You know that smile that seems to knock you and tell you how pathetic you are? That's the smile I was smiling.

At first, she could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him?