Real romance rarely happens. You try to think of wondrous ways on how to woo someone significantly special, that you go to great lengths to accomplish the acts anyone else can do. But it’s the thought that truly counts. And it’s always the little things that gets in. The comfort during dreary depressing days, or a small simple succulent meal of eggs and French toast. The filthy fake flower gets a laugh. And it’s going to be worth all the while. Then something seeps slowly but surely inside, long enough for it to grasp what was longing to be held heedfully, and it goes on.