“Fate has a strange way of making plans.”

“As if that in some way made it better, that fate hadn’t planned it weeks in advance.”

“Let’s make plans,” I ventured. And Sofia smiled and said, “No, let’s leave it to chance.”

“The way you're singing in your sleepThe way you look before you leapThe strange illusions that you keepYou don't knowBut I'm noticingThe way your touch turns into arcsThe way you slide into the darkThe beating of my open heartYou don't knowBut I'm noticing”

“But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest -- the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.”

“I thought: But isn’t this a dance? Isn’t all of this a dance? Isn’t that what we do with words? Isn’t that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it’s choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest—the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.”

“That's not how I'd planned it to be.""How did you plan it to be?" I ask, not to be snarky but because I am genuinely curious."I planned it to be a million different things," he replies. "And in the end, I couldn't figure which one it should be.”