She's never told anyone this, but she likes to listen to him breathe. When the early morning light starts to filter through the blinds, when their arms and legs are so entangled she can't tell which is hers and which is his, when they both smell of sweat and tears and failure, she likes to lie her head on his chest and feel the beat of his heart, revel in the rising and falling of his chest. It's the one moment where she feels completely at peace, because it's also the one moment that defines them.
They were confusion, a large mass of feelings and doubts and mistakes that weighed down on their shoulders.
They were deception, frequently stealing away into the night to do who knows what, and back again, as if they were never gone.
They were irregularity, so inconsistent and spontaneous nothing was ever expected.
They were justice, always striving for perfection in all areas so that they could go to sleep at night without visions of that dead little girl in the alley, the sobbing woman in her apartment, the withdrawn teenager in the subway station.
They were right, because they went to work, did their jobs, came home to their respective partners and held up that façade willingly.
They were wrong, because every once in a while they broke and sought comfort in the wrong person, sought to be covered in love that wasn't theirs.
Yet she lay there, completely aware of all these things, and she knew. Because with each other, they were everything, and without, they were nothing at all.