She seemed to be seeing all the way through to the back of him and beyond, out into the cold space of the future in which they would both soon be dead, […] and yet she was looking straight into his eyes, and he could feel her getting warmer by the minute. And so he stopped looking at her eyes and started looking into them, returning their look before it was too late, before this connection between life and what came after life was lost, […] while the two of them were still in touch with the void in which the sum of everything they’d ever said or done, every pain they’d inflicted, every joy they’d shared, would weigh less than the smallest feather on the wind.
“It’s me,” she said. “Just me.”
“I know,” he said, and kissed her.
-Jonathan Franzen, Freedom