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“Paris would be nice,” I say after it’s gone. “Pretty happy right where I am,” he says. I don’t know when he stopped looking up at the sky and started looking at me instead.
Happiness is tricky. Sometimes you have to fight for it. Sometimes, though—the best times—it sneaks up behind you, wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close.
Maybe the whole point of love is to make more of itself.
The philosopher-poets say love is the answer, but it’s more than that. Love is the question and the answer and the reason to ask in the first place. It’s everything. All of it.”

