Speaking felt impossible, as contained and enclosed as she was, a longing that went on a loop, a longing for nothing at all.

There are some things that only other people can do to you.

. . . overcast afternoons when it seemed possible the whole world had run out of things to say.

And how sad it is that the last face someone makes at you is always the face you remember the most.

She was sure no one had ever been more in love than they were in those weeks, consumed by such longing, wanting to just be alive beside each other.

I sometimes wondered why I even answered the phone, but I guess I always had the hope that it would be someone else, some other way of life calling for me.