“Aren’t you furious?” I’d pressed, and he shrugged. “I want you to be crazy about me,” I’d said, and he said, “You want that. I know. But you also want space to think and work. Freedom. You want to rest sometimes. You’d hate me if I tried to contain you.” He’d sighed, pressed his lips into a thin line. “I love you, but you want impossible things, Ash,” he said, finally, and it was true. It still is. I want impossible things.
