Now I know why it is that I didn't know that I loved you. I know that I'm not like everyone else. Like everything else. But neither were we.

I always hear stories of people knowing love the moment they met it on the street. Sometimes I wonder why this could not have been us.

I hear stories of people that fall hard and fall fast, and I envy them. They can spend every minute with their Rachel and see the future. I never saw an us—just a moment. I fell in love with you piece by piece. Each second with you was our future. All I had in you was every moment.

I hate that I never stopped to look around. Life is just so fast. Especially with you. You were the drug that I couldn't get enough of. And withdrawals hurt like nothing else, and when you're shaking on the floor, all you want is your drug back.

Do you remember the first time we broke the rules? Dr. Montgomery was so mad that we had to make up his biology test, and it scared me the way that you wouldn'tbe more careful crossing the street. I remember your smile, and knowing that with you, everything would be fine. I remember knowing that the brushing hands were different now—we were both breaking the rules in whispers and giggles. Breaking the rule, because we knew we shouldn't be.

Do you remember the first time you made me feel free? That after weeks of unspoken-of embraces and soft kisses on the cheek, you took my hand in the park? I never thanked you for doing that. You must have known, because you've always seen exactly what I need. You must have known that if we spoke of it, it would become real. I'm glad that you sealed the secret moments with smiles and kisses. Nothing was ever more real to me.

Do you remember the night that Kassie looked at us funny and left for the night? I think, now, that she could see how feverishly I was in love with you, and I wish that she had told me. But if she had, I might not have been so surprised. And the surprise was the best part. Surprise that my fingers could move so quietly as to be like moths, that I could forget they were there. Surprise at the way your skin rose when the moths would brush across. Surprise that your eyes could look that alive and yet so sad all at once.

Slowly. That's how I fell for you. It wasn't hard at all. It was easy and soft. I fell softly into the warmth of your arms and never knew.

I fell in love with you the first time you climbed a tree in central park. I fell in love when you put a dandelion in my hair. I fell in love when you ordered the same ice cream every day at the café with fifty-two flavors. Each time your skin got goosebumps beneath my palms, each time you whispered in my ear, every time you cursed while hailing a cab. Every day, I fell I love with you. Not more. Just again.

Sometimes I'm not in love with you. When I'm shampooing my hair and I manage to forget the feeling of your fingers in mine, I'm not in love. Each time I see a leaf twirling down through the air, and I fail to remember roses, strewn across the floor, the bed, the steps—I'm not in love.

But each time I long for the feel of your fingers in the winter, every time I feel a breath upon my neck, even of wind, and pretend for just a moment that it is you—I'm in love all over again. And I'd rather bear a million heartaches from falling in love a million times than forget you for another moment, forget what it feels like to fall in love one last time.