Falling in love was as much about receiving as it was giving, was it? It seemed selfish. It was not, though. Furthermore, it was the opposite. Keeping oneself from being loved was to refuse the ultimate gift. He had thought himself done with romantic love. He had thought himself an incurable cynic. Furthermore, he was not, though. He was only someone whose heart and mind, and very soul, had been battered and bruised. It was still - and always - safe to give since there was a certain deal of control to be exerted over giving. Taking, or allowing oneself to receive, was an altogether more risky business. For receiving meant opening up the heart again. Perhaps to rejection. Or disillusionment. Or pain. Or even heart break. It was all terribly risky. And all terribly necessary. And of course, there was the whole issue of trust...

At Last Comes Love