Maybe there was something in the thought of her that made me think I could feel her, that made me think I knew she was thinking of me.
Somehow, it did not matter that we did not see each other, never talked to one another,
because to me it was her being in the world that counted, a reassurance that there was always a chance that she would be there when I needed her or when she needed me; The
idea that things work themselves out in the end and that God brings together whose who should be. Somehow, I thought all this, yet
somehow, I might have been wrong about her, or about God.
Why do we condemn ourselves to life? To live it the way we do—through a sense of imaginary obligation or dependence? Why do we create our own hells and live with the ghosts of dead memories for years to come? Why could I never forget her?
And why do I love her so much?