He wants to live forever. You aren’t even certain if you want to live until tomorrow. You aren’t too picky about the things you’re willing to die for, but he whispered once (more to himself than to anyone else) that he’d never held anything in the palm of his hand he’d be willing to die for. But the world is shifting and as you stumble against each other, you find your fingers stitched together, the heat of your palm pressing against his. / It’s a strange, unimaginable, breath-stealing thing: He finds something worth dying for and you You find something that makes you wonder if life’s sweeping highs, the songs of your heart swelling in your chest, make the crashing, crumbling lows worth living after all.
(Spoiler alert: they are.)















