The curses and dark magic Storybrooke often found itself tied up in was becoming tiresome. He missed being a blissfully ignorant child living with his father. He felt guilty for things he did growing up in this world, sure, but even he didn't deserve this.

There were small comforts, here and there. He wasn't the one finding them. You did.

Whether other people around here noticed or not, you seemed to have a different kind of magic about you. Not some fantastical one like from everyone's homeland, something more natural. More subtle. It was more about how you perceived the world around you, made it more tolerable for the people who knew you.

He remembered when he was left with a wooden body, stuck in a bed, and you stayed with him as long as you could. He remembered how despite the situation, he enjoyed the conversations.

Now he was standing on your front porch, still wanting to see you after all this time. But now that you were standing there with nothing but a doorway between you...

... all the words escaped him. He was a writer. Words were his whole jig, yet he had nothing.