“I love you,” she says.“I love you,” I say.And then we hang up, because nothing else needs to be said after that.I want to give Zara her life back. Even if I feel I deserve something like this, I don’t deserve it at her expense.”

“fraught, adj.Does every “I love you” deserve an “I love you too”? Does every kiss deserve a kiss back? Does every night deserve to be spent on a lover?If the answer to any of these is “No,” what do we do?”

“And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true.What do you mean?” Norah asks.It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.”

“recant, v.I want to take back at least half of the “I love you”s, because I didn’t mean them as much as the other ones. I want to take back the book of artsy photos I gave you, because you didn’t get it and said it was hipster trash. I want to take back what I said about you being an emotional zombie. I want to take back the time I called you “honey” in front of your sister and you looked like I had just shown her pictures of us having sex. I want to take back the wineglass I broke when I was mad, because it was a nice wineglass and the argument would have ended anyway. I want to take back the time we had sex in a rent-a-car, not because I feel bad about the people who got in the car after us, but because it was massively uncomfortable. I want to take back the trust I had while you were away in Austin. I want to take back the time I said you were a genius, because I was being sarcastic and I should have just said you’d hurt my feelings. I want to take back the secrets I told you so I can decide now whether to tell them to you again. I want to take back the piece of me that lies in you, to see if I truly miss it. I want to take back at least half the “I love you”s, because it feels safer that way.”

“I find myself thinking back to something I saw on the local news about a year ago. A teen football player had died in a car accident. The cameras showed all his friends after the funeral—these big hulking guys, all in tears, saying, “I loved him. We all loved him so much.” I started crying, too, and I wondered if these guys had told the football player they loved him while he was alive, or whether it was only with death that this strange word, love, could be used. I vowed then and there that I would never hesitate to speak up to the people I loved. They deserved to know they gave meaning to my life. They deserved to know I thought the world of them.”

“You really think love needs to have a future?”“Absolutely.”“Good,” Lily said. “So do I.”“Good,” I echoed, leaning in. “So do you.”“Don’t repeat what I say,” she told me, swatting at my arm.“Don’t repeat what I say,” I murmured, smiling.“You’re being silly,” she said, but the silliness was falling out of her voice.“You’re being silly,” I assured her.“Lily is the greatest girl who ever was.”I drew closer. “Lily is the greatest girl who ever was.”For a moment, I think we’d forgotten where we were.And then the officers returned, and we were reminded once again.”

“I want to take back at least half the “I love you”s, because it feels safer that way.”