Melancholy of Life

A photo says, you were happy, and I wanted to catch that. A photo says, you were so important to me, that I put down everything else to come watch.














Love is not a because, it's a no matter what.

Whether or not you believe in Fate comes down to one thing: who do you blame when something goes wrong?

If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?













When people we love make choices, we don't always understand them. But we can go on loving them, just the same. It isn't a matter of comprehension. It's forgiveness.











How could he describe how it felt when she finished his sentences, turned the mug they were sharing so that her mouth landed where his had been? How did he explain the way they could be in a locker room, or underwater, or in the piney woods of Maine, but as long as Em was with him, he was at home?










Raw love, like raw heartache, could blindside you. It could make you forget what you did not know to focus exclusively on those few pieces you could commit to heart.














What if love wasn't the act of finding what you're missing, but the give-and-take that made you both match?