"[Kelsey] and I kept each other awake very late. We laughed. Young sisters in a bed under the roof of their childhood home. Wind on the window.
How could anything less deserve to be destroyed?
I thought we would be awake all night. Awake the rest of our lives.
The space between our worlds grew.
It became difficult to tell when we were talking and when we were silent.
The hairs of our arms touched.
It was late, and we were tired.
We assumed there would be other nights.
[Kelsey]'s breathing started to slow, but I still wanted to talk.
She rolled onto her side.
I said, I want to tell you something.
She said, You can tell me tomorrow.
I had never told her how much I loved her.
She was my sister.
We slept in the same bed.
There was never a right time to say it.
It was always unnecessary.
The books in my father's shed were sighing.
The sheets were rising and falling around me with [Kelsey]'s breathing.
I thought about waking her.
But it was unnecessary.
There would be other nights.
And how can you say I love you to someone you love?
I rolled onto my side and fell asleep next to her.
Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you . . .
It's always necessary.
I love you . . ."