"I am going to tell you everything," she said, "because I have too many feelings that are filling up my lungs, and too many words that refuse to be silenced.
"And when I am eighty years old I do not want to look back and wish I had told you how I see galaxies in your eyes. I do not want to write letters that will never be read or poetry that will never be heard.
"So now I will kiss your nose and breathe your air, and I will ask you to hold me a just a little bit closer even if it means you crush my ribs in the process.
"Because when I am eighty years old I would rather have the scars from the stitches left by an eighteen year old boy than to have ribs that never felt a thing.
"And I would rather trace the marks on my skin, saying ‘he knew, he knew, at least he knew,’ than to lie there regretting and wishing and wondering what you thought, and if I still cross your mind."
He’d never cared much for strawberries, but that summer her lips were so stained with the juices that they were all he tasted.
And he’d never had a favourite fruit, but two years later, a new girl is sat in front of him, laughing at his jokes.
"If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?" She asks playfully.
And he remembers how her hands traced the veins in his neck and made their way across his chest. He remembers her soft breathing and limbs draped across his shoulders.
"Strawberries." He tells her. "I could live a life on nothing but strawberries."