Henry.

I think you could fall in love with anyone if you saw the parts of them no one else gets to see. Like if you followed them around invisibly for a day and saw them crying in their bed at night or singing in the shower or humming quietly to themselves as they make a sandwich or even just walking along the street. And even if they were really weird and had no friends at school, I think, after seeing them at their most vulnerable, you wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with them.

I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn’t, not really.

Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it.

I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea.

Because it’s the halves that halve you in half.

I didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me