"I am going to tell you everything," she said, "because I have too many feelings that are filling up my lungs, and too many words that refuse to be silenced.
"And when I am eighty years old I do not want to look back and wish I had told you how I see galaxies in your eyes. I do not want to write letters that will never be read or poetry that will never be heard.
"So now I will kiss your nose and breathe your air, and I will ask you to hold me a just a little bit closer even if it means you crush my ribs in the process.
"Because when I am eighty years old I would rather have the scars from the stitches left by an eighteen year old boy than to have ribs that never felt a thing.
"And I would rather trace the marks on my skin, saying ‘he knew, he knew, at least he knew,’ than to lie there regretting and wishing and wondering what you thought, and if I still cross your mind.""