Maybe the secret of the stars has nothing to do with being alone.
Sorry? Sorry? Sorry isn’t enough. Every. Single. Thing. I ever loved is beyond my reach now. Everything I ever wanted. Everything I ever was.
Love without choice isn’t love at all.
What is in our hearts is real whether we name it or let it exist only in darkness or silence.
But death doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t care if someone loves you, doesn’t want you to go. It just takes. It takes and it takes until eventually you have nothing left.
A leader doesn’t make pawns – he makes people.
He’s the only stable thing in the swirling chaos.
It’s always in the rain...
And there is nothing between us but rain. Then there is nothing between us at all.
And I look at Harley, and the billions of stars are in his eyes, and he’s drinking them up, pouring them into his soul.
I wrote a book. It sucked. I wrote nine more books. They sucked, too. Meanwhile, I read every single thing I could find on publishing and writing, went to conferences, joined professional organizations, hooked up with fellow writers in critique groups, and didn’t give up. Then I wrote one more book.
I’ll always come back to you.
But there’s a difference, isn’t there? Between saying goodbye and death.
There is only him and me and this thing between us that I cannot name, not out loud, but that my heart knows is love.
I quit thinking.
And I know without being told that she killed herself. And I totally understand why.
Emotion courses through my veins, choking me. I feel so insignificant, a tiny speck surrounded by a million stars. A million suns.
It’s bad, being frozen, but it’s better than waking up alone.
I choose this,” I say, my voice ragged with want. “I choose you.
If it’s a matter of dying here or dying there, I think I’d like to at least see the world first.