"She Acts Like Summer And Walks Like Rain"

Falling out of love was the suicide of her writing. Two slashes on each damned wrist, you knew what she meant. You never forget your first, but she will forget that life. It was something she had to do. The ink was gone but she'd been looking for something new to write about anyhow. New pen, new life, new story. Happiness this time? Two years had barely grazed past her. Where did all that time go? Was it well spent? Two years later. A heap of worthless boys. Worthless arms, worthless intertwined fingers, worthless heartbeats, worthless kisses. Two years later and it was a new year. Did you expect to feel again? Did you expect the butterflies? The clammy hands? Your stomach in your throat? Or your heart in your stomach? The walls are high and metaphor is only a word. But maybe if the door gets broken down, love can break in. Do you believe that? She does.

It was the kind of kiss that made her know she was never so happy in her whole life. You can either fight it or stand back while he's breaking down the door.