“They died for me,” I say. That feels important”

“Everyone wears a sign that says "Make me feel important”

“What’s important,” I say, taking his face in mine hands, looking him in the eye, “is that all this hesitation of yours is giving me a complex. And I feel annoying, insecure thoughts threatening to infiltrate the certainty of you liking me.”

“Not quite. I'm thinking of a queer feeling I sometimes get, a feel that I've got something important to say and the power to say it—only I don't know what it is, and I can't make any use of the power.”

“Material possessions aren't important to me," I say breathlessly. "All that matters to me is yoga.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not. She never caused me this agony.”What could I say to that? The way he was looking at me was making my head feel funny. Was making me feel funny and not just in that oh God I just almost died way.Christophe leaned in. His mouth was a mere centimetres from me. “She never made me think I would die of heart failure. She never, never made me fear for her this way.”