Years ago I collected every dream in every crevice I could peek into. And when there were no precious spaces, there was everything else: the tone of your wrinkled brow at the end of the day standing over the gas stove, your dreams dry and speckled white in the corners of your eyes, resilience, sitting at the side of the bed wielding your body forward, feet to the floor, moving gently past his unhappy. There was a distance between you and him that I knew nothing about. I was an outsider who slipped in between those unfamiliar spaces, peeked in on you and him, a raggedy kind of love. And then there was time, between innocence and knowing, between the sliver of doorway, when somehow that space no longer felt distant or unfamiliar, but more like you, and me.
“…Everyone had something indescribably precious at the heart of their being.” -Mary Balogh