A heart is a fragile thing. That’s why we protect them so vigorously, give them away so rarely, and why it means so much when we do. Some hearts are more fragile than others. Purer, somehow. Like crystal in a world of glass, even the way they shatter is beautiful.

Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that things are okay, rather than face a difficult truth. So we go through the motions, the rituals of everyday life. We hope the comfortable rhythms of familiarity will hold off the inevitable just a little longer; return things to normal, anything to buy us more time. Playing pretend, make believe, it might be the one thing we never outgrow.