It feels like all we ever do in this world is break each others’ hearts.

It was the kiss by which all the others of his life would be judged and found wanting.

But Tom was not thinking about magic or struggle or the rest of his journey.

He was enjoying the game and the bright sun, and his heart was a child's heart.

But then, all grownup's hearts are children's hearts inside, if you can only find the catch that opens them.

I think I'm beginning to understand
how hearts fit together.
Not like diseased carnations that lean against their crutches.
Not like vines that twine tight, throttling their hosts.
But like two trees:
two systems of deep, untangled roots,
two patterns of flowering branches,
whose leaves drink their own sunlight
and breathe their own air.
Two trees with something slung between them,
a hammock or a tapestry or a swing,
some third, beautiful thing
that neither would die without.
Hearts fit together like hands.
Not by necessity.
By choice.

That 3-pointer was a dagger in our hearts there at the end.

For though, as we have said, all children are heartless, this is not precisely true of teenagers. Teenage hearts are raw and new, fast and fierce, and they do not know their own strength. Neither do they know reason or restraint, and if you want to know the truth, a goodly number of grown-up hearts never learn it.