I barely know you, she says, voice heavy with sleep. I don't know your favorite color or how you like your coffee. What keeps you up at night or the lullabies that sing you to sleep. I don't know a thing about the first girl you loved, why you stopped loving her or why you still do. I don't know how many millions of cells you are made of and if they have any idea they are part of something so beautiful and unimaginably perfect. I may not have a clue about any of these things but this - she places her hand on his chest - this, I know.