“You think it’s real?” “I think you think it is. And that’s enough.” She pauses, watching me. “But also? You’re scared shitless.” “I am,” I whisper, and it feels like a confession. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Good. That means it matters. The right kind of love doesn’t always feel safe. Sometimes it feels like a hurricane you can’t survive. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it breaks down all the bullshit so you can finally build something real.”
