“Still. Don’t you think there is something inherently romantic about tragedy?” He blinked. “Romantic?” I slid closer to him so my forearm was brushing against his. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his cup of tea. He had not tried to refill it yet, and the steam had stopped rising. Only a little longer now. “Yes, romantic,” I said, rolling the word on my tongue like honey. His breathing was unsteady. “All those lost opportunities; everything gone and wilted and buried. Divided loves and shattered hearts. Devastating, but beautiful. Memorable. How deeply it stirs the soul.”
