The night before, Steve had hit me as I had tried to prove a point, and I was feeling sad and sorry for myself.
وَبَيْنَمَا أَنَا أَقْرَأُهَا فَكَّرْتُ :‏ ‹ سْتِيڤ لَا يَفْعَلُ أَيًّا مِنْ هذِهِ ٱلْأُمُورِ ٱلْحُبِّيَّةِ مِنْ أَجْلِي › .‏