I know they call him a psychopath. That he is the darkness that eats the light and nothing about him is remotely human. He can’t feel. But I’ve felt his heart beneath my hands, committed the steady rhythm to memory, and I know it matches my own. It’s a pair, his and mine, created from the same flesh and muscle, cleaved into two separate bodies. That’s the thing about love. It doesn’t care if you’re toxic. If their parent murdered yours, or he’s incapable of feeling. Love doesn’t care because it takes you over. It consumes you, eats at you, and leaves you barren. It does what it wants. It takes
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