A/N: Hopefully this gives a better understanding of Tiffany's perspective!

You had freckles across the bridge of your nose. You found them annoying; I found them cute. I liked how pale they look when you blushed – and you blushed a lot around me. I knew that at first it was because of embarrassment, and then…

You didn’t need to be embarrassed. I wasn’t the blushing type, but if I were, you would make me blush all the time. You made butterflies flutter all the way from my stomach to my throat. You couldn’t see it, not like a blush. I wished you could. I wished you knew what you did to me.

I didn’t know why you were self-conscious about your freckles. I didn’t know why you were self-conscious about anything. You were so beautiful. Why couldn’t you see that?

If you couldn’t see that, I will show you. If you didn’t know how beautiful you were, I will tell you. If you didn’t know what love was like, I will give it to you.

I would give you anyth—I would give you all that I was capable of.

You looked at me like I was a light in a dark room. Like all your life you’d only seen stars and I gave you the sun.

I wish I could. I wanted to give you anything and everything you wanted. I wanted to give you the world, not just the little corner of it in which we hid. You deserved that. You deserved better than me.

I was just waiting for you to see it.

Your eyes were lighter than mine, an almost golden brown instead of almost black. They always reminded me of sweet things: chocolate, burnt caramel, coffee.

Well, I supposed those were bittersweet. Which was fitting, because that’s how I felt when I thought about your eyes, your smile, you.

I never told you this, but I saw the look on your face when you came to my house the first time. I saw the way you looked at evidence of my family’s faith – my faith – and then at me. The smothered hope, followed by the muted resignation.

I hated seeing that look on your face, and I hated that I was the one who put it there. I hated even more that I couldn’t take it away.

All my life, I’d been raised with faith. With Him, His words and His wisdom and His love. I was taught that He loved us unconditionally, and yet there were all these conditions we were supposed to follow. Things to make Him happy.

I had always wanted to make Him happy. To make my parents happy. To be a good daughter and friend and person and one day a good wife and mother. I wanted to marry a man with a nice smile and broad shoulders and have two children (a boy and a girl) and a house with a picket fence and a large backyard. I wanted a life out of a storybook.

Then I met you.

You were better than any storybook character; you made me feel things stories could never compare to. I had a shelf full of romance novels, but after you I didn’t want to read love stories anymore because I was living one.

I had always wanted to make Him happy, but He said that it was wrong to be with you, it was wrong to love you. I couldn’t understand that. I didn’t believe that.

I knew that you wished I would hold your hand in public, that I would sit close to you, freely smile and stare at you. I knew you wanted it. Craved it.

The truth was, I wanted it too. I wanted to show people – especially the boys that leered at you, and believe me, there were more than a few, there were more than you ever noticed – that you were mine, and that I was yours. That we belonged to each other. We belonged together.

But I was afraid. Afraid that we would be judged. Ostracized. Mocked. Attacked.

I didn’t think we were wrong – how could this be wrong, how could the way you smiled at me, breathed my name, curled around me be wrong? – but I knew other people thought differently. My own parents thought differently.

And how could we face that? How could I face that?

I loved the way you reached for me in your sleep, the way I would wake with our legs tangled together, or your arm around my waist, or your face buried against my neck. I loved that even in sleep, you sought me out. I loved that although you were far from a morning person, you always smiled at me in the morning, like I was better than whatever dream you woke from. I loved that you always kissed me before you went to bed, so I would fall asleep with the taste of mint and you on my lips. I loved…

I loved.

I knew I was hurting you, and it hurt me too. I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to shield you from hurt; I wanted to protect you. But now I was the one breaking you and me, breaking you, and breaking me. Breaking us.

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.

People had always made ‘I love you’ A Very Big Deal. Like they weren’t just words, they were a magic spell, they were miracle glue, they were a promise that everything was going to work out.

It was funny how one word could break the spell, undo the glue, shatter the promise (or rather, the illusion). That word was, of course, ‘but.’ I love you, but.

I love you, but I can’t give you what you want. I know you think that all you want is me, but one day you’ll find out that I’m not enough, and I cannot bear for that day to come.

I love you, but the world isn’t just made of you and me. I love you with my whole heart, I really do, but my heart can’t win against my mind. My heart can’t win against the world.

I love you, but love isn’t always enough. Love can’t solve everything. Love can’t conquer all. Love…love just is.

I love you, but.

A/N: Literally all I have written for the next part(s):

Jessica:

Maybe you’re right. Maybe love isn’t always enough. But that must be someone else’s always, because it is enough for us. It is.

I love you, and you love me, and it’s enough for now. It’s enough for always.

Tiffany:

I love you. Full stop.