“Thank you,” he says, looking back down at the frame. He runs the pad of one thumb across it. I crawl toward him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders so we can look at it together. A torn square of Molly’s wallpaper: perfect, spotless sky; happy clouds; red bird singing into the morning.
Henry swipes a hand over his eyes, and I tuck my feet into his lap. He puts the frame down on the floor, facing us, and hugs my legs into his body.
“She’ll be here,” I say, resting my cheek against his arm. “With you. No matter where we go.”
Because that’s the thing, about hearts—broken or aching or otherwise. They don’t belong to any one time or place. We carry them with us: bruised and scabbed over, healing and changing, always and inherently our own.
“I love you,” Henry tells me. And there’s room for that, too. Every broken heart keeps beating, in the end.
So will mine; so will his.
So will yours.
