What do we mean when we talk about love?
The pain it brings us. The nights when you can't sleep because everytime you close your eyes you see her cute little face. Her eyes.
I miss them. I miss it all. Her random thoughts. Her fashion style. The words she cannot pronounce correctly.
The way she supports her head with her hand when she's listening to your pointless blabble.
And then it ends. And all you can do is offer the next one what is left of you. Step by step we dissolve. You were right, Hank.
That's what love is. And I fucking hate it.