And she never knew that he laid awake the whole time, his lips at her temple, his hand against her hair. Whispering her name. Whispering other words as well.
Francesca nao precisava ama-lo. Mas tinha de se sentir livre. Livre para ser feliz. Porque se nao estivesse feliz... Bem, 'isso' o mataria. Podia viver sem o seu amor, mas nao sem a sua felicidade.
Her hayatta bir donum noktasi vardir.Bu oyle muazzam ,keskin ve belirgin bir andir ki insan kendini gogsunden vurulmus gibi hisseder,nefesi kesilir ve bilir...Suphenin en ufak golgesi olmaksizin hayatinin bir daha asla ayni olmayacagini kesinlikle bilir.
It was something in the way she moved. Something in the way she breathed. Something in the way she merely 'was' . And he didn't think he was ever going to get over it.