Sometimes there was no reason.
Sometimes things simply were. Sometimes things happened without ever knowing the reason why. Without there even being one.
Infection didn't need a reason. All it needed was an opening. A tiny little scrape. An open cut. It never mattered how small, how superficial. All it needed was that one tiny little tear to slip in and spread to everything it touched.
Infection was the reason.
And it had set in so deep that it had hit bone. That it was beginning to rot at an alarming pace, damaging everything beyond repair.
His love was the infection.
And his love knew no reason.
His love needed no reason.
Maybe that's because there wasn't one. Or because there were too many. More than ever could be counted. There simply wasn't a number high enough.
Sometimes there was no reason.
Just like there were no answers.
