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“I would have loved you forever,' he says, his breath hot on my mouth. I meet his gaze. 'And I will.' His mouth dips against mine once more, but this time it is soft and gently, quiet and questioning, as though he is exploring every inch of my lips with his so that he might memorize them. They are gentle kisses. Kisses that know they cannot last. Kisses that beg for just a breath longer. Kisses that mean goodbye.”

“I was going to do some more work when I got home, but…” She sighs, rubbing her knuckles against her eyes. “I didn’t have enough juice.” “Ah,” I say. For her birthday this summer, I splurged and bought a small bushel of oranges, which we squeezed into glasses and pretended was the real, gourmet orange juice our father used to make. As we sat at the table, acting like the drink wasn’t sour and pulpy, we got to talking about how her illness had come to affect her life. She explained to me that her energy reserves were like that glass of yellow juice. Every action of daily life—getting out of bed, bathing, dressing, doing research—siphoned juice away. Once the glass was empty, no matter how much she had left she needed to do or how much she’d hoped to get done, her body needed to rest. To refill the glass. If she tried to push beyond that, it could knock her out for days. Even weeks.”