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That’s how you know you really love something, Tallulahloo, when it feels worth the hassle, when even the hardest parts of it feel like a gift.”
Awfully confident, aren’t you?” “Better than confidently awful,” he says, winking.
We’re night and day. Why would we be friends?” “Why wouldn’t we?” he counters. “Consider this. You know your literature—you’re a book lover. Think about how many great stories are built on friendships between people who couldn’t be more different. Difference is what makes the world beautiful, Lu, it’s what makes life interesting.”
Every time I see him, I’m happier. He’s the human embodiment of serotonin.”
“I see love as . . . elemental, something so deeply woven into everything that makes life feel alive. And I’m not even talking exclusively about romantic love. Love takes so many forms. Love for ourselves. Our surroundings. Strangers. Friends. Family. Partners.
“I think love is . . . wrapping your arms around every emotion, even the hard ones, even when being numb seems so much safer. Love is hoping, even after disappointment has taught you not to. Love is that bone-deep hum of peace through your body when you’re hugged hard, when you’re listened to well, when you’re not left alone in your sadness. Love is stubborn and persistent, an indomitable weed that springs up in those slivers of soft soil in our concrete-jungle existence.
I didn’t have to know, didn’t have to make some profound sense of why they were put on my path when they were, for me to love them. I could just . . . love them. That was enough.”
My jaw clenches. I blink away tears. “It’s . . . scary.” He pats my back. “I know. But these books we’re surrounded by, that you’ve voraciously read, isn’t that what they’re all about? Being brave enough to take risks to have the life we want and love? Be brave for yourself, Viggo. You deserve it.”
Tired of trying to do everything right and this stupid disease still manages to pull the rug out from underneath me. It’s claustrophobic, just inescapable. And it’s lonely, so fucking lonely, when I’m the only one who understands, who’s carrying the weight of this disease, the unpredictability of it. I’m so tired—” Her voice breaks, and she burrows into me.
“Home is not a place. Home is . . . this.” She glances around the table. “Our hearts, our love, knitting us together, wherever we are. Wherever life takes you, may you know you have a home in our hearts, and may your hearts always be each other’s home.”
