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He wouldn’t let her know just how unnerving the experience had been for him, wouldn’t let her know that in a world made black and white, she had been doused in colour.
Love didn’t happen once, she realised. It happened every day, in little moments, in
the quiet gaps between grand words, in the lingering touches, in the hope it promised in the dark. Love was something that breathed and expanded, that was made and remade, again and again, reforged only to become stronger.
