well here it is
I wonder to myself. When ever he comes home I wonder what kind of things will happen, whether he will come home with a new bullet wound. Or if he has some brand new scars, Will he be dead one day and never have a dying wish. No matter though. I love him. More than anyone. I canít describe the feeling. Heís a jack [All hail lord Xenu] a lot of the time. It amazes me what happened between us through the years. Near to his eighteenth birthday, he came home, battered, bruised. He had obviously been chained up for a long time. He had almost fatal injuries and the whole set of his left ribs had almost been wrenched straight out. Nothing a little human alchemy canít fix. Thatís what he said when he came home. He barely said anything else the entire day. He had come home one day at the age of seventeen, right after the immortal army incident and had grown so much. I could barley think of anything else. Those were tender days. Nothing a little alchemy canít fix. He always said that. I wondered if he would say that when I was pregnant. Funnily enough, he did. When Alphonse had lost his books for an exam, he made some new ones. If he desperately needed new automail he would make a new one himself. He was lucky like that. He even transmuted our wedding rings out of automail. That was quite a day. What is love? For me: itís knowing he cares and that he keeps his promises. No matter how much of an idiot he is. I love him. More than he might know.
well plz comment