"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Do you want me to give you some space?"
"No."
"Babe… Please tell me. I'm terrible at these guessing games."
"Can you tell me a story?"
"I don't –"
"Please? It'll get my mind off it. Then I can tell you."
"I – Okay. What should it be about?"
"I don't know. Anything. You've got a world full of topics."
"Alright. Well, once upon a time, there were two kids, a boy and a girl. Every day, the boy would walk a mile after school to the girl's house and, from there, they'd walk another quarter of a mile to the playground together. This tradition started when they were six and continued until they were sixteen.
"They never failed to hold hands while running across the street, just like they'd been taught to in kindergarten. He always stopped to help her climb onto the higher parts of the jungle gym and she always took a moment to kiss his skinned knees better.
"Then one day, after he'd swung exceptionally high on the swing set, he jumped off, just to feel like he was flying for a moment, and it felt amazing being so high off the ground. But he landed on the blacktop and sliced open every surface that came in contact with the ground.
"She of course rushed over and kissed every sort spot better, aided by him pointing out each scrape and bruise, but when she finished tenderly pecking the scrape on his knee, she looked up to see his finger resting on his lips.
"She blushed and he never ever forgot that blush, and then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips before standing up and walking away."
"Why'd she leave?"
"Because she loved him."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"He didn't think so either. And of course the next day, he didn't walk to her house."
"Why?"
"Because he was confused. And a little bit embarrassed. And had taken that as her telling him she didn't like him."
"Then she wouldn't have kissed him."
"I know that. He didn't."
"You know everything."
"Not everything."
"No?"
"No."
"Well, what happened?"
"Nothing. He didn't go by her house because he couldn't face the love of his life knowing she didn't love him back and she didn't get a hold of him because, well, girls are funny that way."
"That's all? They didn't meet up and confess to each other? They didn't get married and have pretty babies?"
"No, they didn't."
"Why?"
"Calm down hon. They haven't met up again because the story isn't over. They're still out there somewhere and they still think about each other all the time. Maybe someday something will happen and she'll need him. He'll come."

"You're awfully quiet. What're you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about the world. It sucks."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's full of poverty and starvation and war and unfinished stories."
"Well, all stories are unfinished."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, by the time the story's over, there's no one left to tell it."

"I guess you're right. You always are."
"Not always."
"Most of the time."

"Will that story have a happy ending?"
"Most likely."
"What do you mean? Why would you tell me a story without one?"
"Because, you know, 'if it's a happy ending, it isn't over.' Maybe they grow old together and die on the same day. Maybe she's already moved on."
"What do you think?"

"I think he loves her too much to let it have a sad ending."

"I – I think I'm ready to tell you now."

"Today..."