... They were in no way perfect standing alone, or even together.
But she loved him. From the crooked way that his eyebrows would furrow, while he was deep in thought, to the way he would gingerly brush his lips against waist and hips as she lay quietly beside him. The strength of his gentleness rivaled that of his anger, and his quiet, "I'm sorry" over the crackling of the telephone was always enough to ease her stubborn heart. And though her natural curiosity led to an endless stream of inquiries that vexed him, he would have preferred her voice, inquiring about the many natures of things, over any other voice, and to only hear her, "Good night, I love you" over the bidding of any other woman.
However, "it wasn’t enough. [Their] love that [couldn't] even be considered a love. [They] were just two people that couldn’t mould together. And maybe what [they] had wasn’t love at all. Maybe it was what [they] wanted to be love. Maybe it was all just made up."
