I listened to him, and I thought that maybe life could get better, but that it didn't matter if it did or not, because I was already so happy it hurt, so content to listen to him and his honeysweet young voice.

He said, "I'm going to fall asleep with a smile on my face for the first time since my parents cut us off."

He said, "I want to be where I belong. I want to be with you."

He said, "I've missed you. I love you. I need you."

And I didn't say much, because my voice sounded like a drugged, crack-smoking duck, and my throat hurt whenever I talked, but it was worth it, all worth it, just for the chance to hear his voice on the other end of the phone and to hear him tell me that he was OK, that he wasn't completely happy without me but that he wasn't miserable, that it was all right.

I got off the phone and cried for nearly a half-hour, tears running down my cheeks and my voice gone, little squeaky howls escaping me between gasped breaths. I cried because he was so beautiful it hurt. I cried because I missed him already. I cried because I knew all the reasons I loved him and all the reasons I was bad for him, and that the first outweighed the second by enough to make it well worth the risks. I cried because I wanted to spend an eternity listening to his voice, to that sweet slow youthful tone, the sound of summer and furres and Canadian daydreams... and I cried because I knew I would be able to do so. I cried because I was so happy that I thought I would die of it.