Hugh Howey’s The Hurricane. I must say Hugh, your boy is a dork. A naive, overly-trusting, miserable little dork. He should have seen it coming, he should have known that girl…well, you know the girl I’m talking about.
But in the end, love, true love in all it’s dorkiness is the only way to be in love. It is a naive, overly-trusting, never failing to be amazed by the pureness, the shininess, the intensity that comes from holding hands in the innocence of first love.
To have your world blown out by a storm so great you are lost in its immensity, only to find that a single solitary other person, can encompass that immensity and more simply by offering a smile to your shy nervousness.
There’s a storm. There is love. Then there is a storm called love.