Because the fact is, he was actually happier in his life the way it was then he would have been with me. It's true, he love me more-in the way the world thinks of love. But that kind of love consumes you. It eats you up; it gives you no rest. Those are the facts, and in life we always seem to want the facts. We look at statistics. We seek our explanations and hard evidence. We hope, with facts, that we will be able to control the events in our lives, or that if we can't control them, at least the facts will explain them. We hope they'll help us understand. That suddenly it will all make sense. That the mystery will be revealed. But have you noticed that the facts are like a blanket that's not quite big enough? There's always something of the unknown that's left exposed.

Now that the story is over for me, i can see that the unknown isn't something frightening. It is love itself. And when it comes, its is that one thing that is uncontrollable, unpredictable, unlimited. Even from here, where everything makes sense, that remains a mystery.