"We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste!" - Andre Acimen.

I knew from the beginning that it was the end. You would never be mine, not completely, maybe transiently. Although I found happiness in my subsequent relationships (I am happy. I love my husband. He knows about you, us.), that constricted feeling in my throat remains when my mind drifts to you and to be honest, I have cried for what we had more times than I would like to admit over the last decade. I no longer cry for you. I cry for the part of me I lost, or perhaps it is more accurate to say I gifted to you in my naivety. Some of my best memories transpired within your period of my life- the best and the worst. I truly believed that I could come out of these encounters unscathed; my mind was prepared, my heart steeled.

We told each other that we would never regret our time together. Have you seen two people more hell bent on self destruction? I left you before you could leave me. You got married. I was selfish. We both paid for it. I could see it in your eyes the last time. What were you thinking when you asked to see my engagement ring? That look on your face when you gently slid it off before slipping it back onto my finger, I may be too afraid now to give anyone all of myself. Is this what it means to regret? How can it be when hundreds of fireflies illuminated that junction where our paths crossed— catfishing at twilight while awaiting the coming dawn. There, sitting in a forest in the middle of nowhere, away from our real lives, I thought we found peace. The tranquility I felt then has since been unmatched, but in the end, an illusion that left us both shattered.

Did I ever tell you that loved you?

Sorry guys. I know this isn't really fanfiction, just the swirl of emotions that bubbled out when I read the book.