Each day without her had been increasingly painful, like an infection to which I had no antidote. And as that infection grew, I saw again how right Rosalie had been; it was a certain game we played, life. A balancing act of pain and love. The things we loved most led to the most pain. Remove those things in an attempt of preservation, and the infection would spread twice as quickly. Our only hope was to hold onto love and hope the horrible disease stayed far behind.
