There was something wrong with her. She did not know what it was but there was something wrong with her. A hunger, a restlessness. An incomplete knowledge of herself. The sense of something farther away, beyond her reach.

¿Es amor esta necesidad irracional de tenerte junto a mí la mayor parte del tiempo? ¿Es amor la seguridad que siento durante los silencios que compartimos? ¿Lo es esta sensación de pertenencia, esta plenitud?

You can’t nice your way to being loved.

This was love: a string of coincidences that gathered significance and became miracles.