He loved her in a subtle kind of way. It wasn't like the kind of love you see in the movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn't the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambi pentameter. It was still and deep, like water that you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface. It was entirely his, not dependant on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or him, or everyone else on the world disappeared. It was a subtle kind of love, but it was true.
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