She fell in love with him because of the way he made her feel. The electricity, the longing, the sense that the world was more vivid when he was in it. She fell in love with his charm, his wit, the way he looked at her across a crowded room. But she stayed in love with him, through the hard seasons and the ordinary days, because of something quieter and less celebrated. She liked him. Genuinely, deeply, simply liked him. She liked talking to him about nothing in particular. She liked running errands with him on a Saturday morning. She liked the way he laughed at his own jokes before he finished telling them. She liked the person he was when he was not trying to impress anyone, when he was just himself, unguarded and unpolished. The romance had brought them together. The friendship had kept them there.