I have noticed over many centuries of relationships that a corollary to love is worry. They sort of come together as a matched set, and it's nigh impossible to ditch one without the other. I don't mean worry in the sense of a constant hand-wringing or an outward show of anxiety but a silent panic, always there but flaring up on occasion until one chokes and cannot see through a sudden veil of tears, panic that what you cherish most will be scarred or lost or taken away forever.