"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on."One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing.
Because she is my rose."
You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect — you aren't either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break — her heart. So don't hurt her, don't change her, don't analyze and don't expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she's not there.
Relationships? Well, Sigmund, relationships are so fragile. It just takes one thing, one... tiny little offence, and it can snowball on you. And if that snowball starts to pick up speed, God forbid, you better tuck and go. <...> And bam! The shine's off the apple. That's when you find out that that pretty girl you married isn't a pretty girl at all. No. She's a man-eater. And I'm not talking about the ''Whoa, whoa, here she comes'' kind of man-eater. I'm talking about the kind that uses your dignity as a dishtowel to wipe up any shreds of manhood that might be stuck inside the sink. I may have tormented her from time to time, but that's what I thought marriage was all about. So much so, that by the end of that relationship, I honestly don't know
who I hated more: her or me. I used to sit around and wonder why our friends weren't trying to destroy each other, like we were. And here it turns out the answer's pretty simple. They weren't unhappy. We were. <...> Relationships don't work the way they do in the movies. Will they? Won't they? They finally do and they're happy for ever. Nine out of ten end because they weren't right for each other to begin with, and half of the ones that get married get divorced anyway. And through all this, I have not become a cynic. I do happen to believe that love is mainly about pushing chocolate-covered candies, and you know, in some cultures, a chicken. You can call me a sucker. I don't care. Because I do believe in it.