All my life, love was something I reached for. It was a scarcity, an unknown. Sometimes it was there, and other times it wasn’t. Sometimes it felt in my control—like if I behaved a certain way, it would be given. Other times it was unpredictable, doled out in a system of intermittent reinforcement. The love that Snow showed me wasn’t choppy, with tumultuous ebbs and flows. It was steady and reliable, a gentle river that went on and on.
I don’t not read these books to be reminded of my past failed relationships my god.
