But love wasn’t measured by its ending. It was every cup of coffee, broken boiler, empty crisp packet, and train ride. It was every hangover, stubbed toe, high temperature, nasty splinter, and burned tongue. Every eye roll, private joke, and piece of burned toast. Every morning cuddle and blunt pencil. Every kiss good night, every lost key, sore

It isn’t your life that flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. It’s the life you thought you were going to have, just before it’s snatched away from you forever.

But love isn’t finite. One doesn’t take from the other. It’s not a number or an equation. It’s an open field, and here he was, charging through it.

How the weather can be so perfect outside and the tomatoes are in the garden, growing in abundance, and you’re cooking for two and then you’re not.

It seemed there was no tub deep enough, coffee strong enough, or martini cold enough that could distract me from the relentless yearning that a year ago a therapist had promised would eventually fade.

Tom wished he could teeter on this precipice as long as possible—the delicious, all-too-brief time when everything is just beginning. Tom and I called it “The Island,” when the rest of the world became inconsequential overnight. We sealed ourselves into Tom’s flat for days on end, having sex and eating leftover takeaway.