“I remember everything!” he snarls, loud enough to make her flinch. “How you move— the way you breathe—” His words hitch on a strangled half-sob; he stares at her like a man caught in a waking dream as he skims the line of her jaw with his knuckles, stopping to touch the pad of his thumb to her bottom lip. “How your eyes met mine in the starlight,” he continues through a broken, haunted rasp of a voice, “and I felt like the look on your face.”
Or: What is alive must heal. What cannot heal must endure.