“I love you, too," I tell him quickly. "I have for weeks.”
“He’s had ten years to make you fall in love with him. I haven’t had ten weeks! Tell me how that’s fair!”
“Why do you love me?” I sigh at the question I’ve asked myself frequently over the years. With a quick peck to his lips, I tell him, “Because, in you, I found my heart.”
“I love you for your quickness and your brokenness and your sharp edges too.”
“Then, if you love him," he said quietly, "please, Tessa, don't tell him what I just told you. Don't tell him that I love you.”
“I don’t have to tell you, “I don’t have to tell you” before telling you something I don’t have to tell you. I also don't have to tell you I love you, but I do.”