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“Are you going to kiss me?” “I’m thinking about it.” “A-are you m-mine?” “You know the answer to that.” “I’m trying so hard to not fall in love with you.” “I know.”
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Yes, Fisher. You’re my cruciverbalist soul mate, you stubborn ass with a broken brain.
“I think love—the good kind—holds an equal mix of wonder and familiarity. That feeling like you know someone, yet you also know parts of them are still a mystery that you can’t wait to slowly discover. If there’s no wonder, I think the love can die. If there’s no familiarity, I think the love already feels dead. If I were the one marrying you, I would be bothered more than I am. But you chose her.”
“The only memories of my past I want to get back … are the ones of you.”
“I told her I’m engaged to a woman I’ve known nearly my whole life. But I’m in love with a woman I’ve known for a breath, maybe two.”
The only gift I cared to give my future husband was the most confident version of myself. A full heart and a humbled soul.
“You’re one, Fisher.” “One in what?” I opened the door, and he closed it behind us. “Not in anything. Not one in eighty thousand. Not one in a billion times infinity. You’re just one. The one.”
It was one thing to hear someone tell you they love you. It was something entirely different, infinitely more special to hear them say the words to someone else like it was a three-word explanation for their existence. I love her.
I was the luckiest her in the world.
