[ It always hurts. And it hurts so much for so long. A fucking chasm inside her that just seems to grow and grow and grow as the centuries go by. But he's right — he's right, or they're both the same kind of stupid, because love is the only thing that's ever mattered. The only thing that's ever made living bearable. Even the tender agony of it — the grief — that was better than the dull emptiness she felt when she was alone.
The little ache he inspires in her chest is a reminder. ]
Is that romance? Or just masochism? [ Wry and quiet, as she finally offers their dwindling cigarette back to Harry: ] I'm not sure I can tell the fucking difference anymore.
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The little ache he inspires in her chest is a reminder. ]
Is that romance? Or just masochism? [ Wry and quiet, as she finally offers their dwindling cigarette back to Harry: ] I'm not sure I can tell the fucking difference anymore.