Inside.

Some people think that love plateaus, that you reach a point when you can't love another human being any more than you love them currently. If I knew more about science, I'd find some kind of constantly expanding phenomenon (besides the universe which, according to a completely choice scene from Annie Hall, I have learned is constantly expanding) to compare love to. Instead, I'm just going to say that it's constantly expanding. If you're doing things "right" (if, indeed, there is a right at all), it shouldn't plateau, and it certainly shouldn't lessen.

Every time I make the statement, "I've never loved you more than I do right in this moment," it's a true statement. But each time I've never loved him more, it's more than I've ever never loved him (try that for a strange statement).

Last night, I literally thought that I could not feel any more for him than I did. I know it's not true and at some point soon, whether it's looking at each other over the top of a book, or touching each others' hands in the elevator, I will get that same feeling again. It's something to do with skin and holding, perhaps. Or that understanding that comes from the different ways to hold hands.

I remember the first time I dated someone, in high school, he was older than I was and at certain points, we'd be laying on his couch watching a movie and he'd hug me. Tightly. I never really understood the hugging that tightly and I'd push back a little and go directly back to watching the movie. He was asking for something that I, based on immaturity, misunderstanding or downright fear, couldn't give to him.

On the other hand, last night, he wrangled across the bed, tucking in the side of the sheet next to me, the side where he wasn't and folded me up into him. "Let me just hug you," he sang into my ear. I agreed and we squeezed each other like we were trying to climb inside, to inhabit.

My feelings keep growing, every time I think they cannot. Something is happening here.