The look in his eyes, though sad and unwilling to break, tore at her heart. She smiled encouragingly and, in a small voice, said,
"You're not sad, Dean. You're morose. That makes you more attractive because you've felt more love and pain than you had a share of."
"Look at me," He scoffed like she wouldn't want to every minute of every day. "I'm tired."
"You're exhausted. That means you've been working for something."
"I'm useless."
The hairpin curve of her lips bent upward with more ease than a hunter was capable of doing. "You're worn. That means you've been fighting."
"I'm broken."
"So am I. That's why our broken pieces fit together perfectly."
"I'm poison."
"I'm suicidal."
This came to me at 41,000 feet up in the air as I was flying to Honduras. It was inspired by The Dead Poet's Society and Sting's Desert Rose.