People say that time slips through our fingers like sand. What they don’t acknowledge is that some of the sand sticks to the skin. These are memories that will remain, memories of the time when there was still time left.
I had gotten so used to being alone, but never entirely used to it. Never used to it enough to stop wanting the alternative.
The clock always ticks. There are times you don’t hear it, and there are times that you do.
With some break-ups, all you can think about afterwards is how badly it ended and how much the other person hurt you. With others, you become sentimental for the good times and lose track of what went wrong.
But I think we were walking around like we were invincible. And maybe that’s a bad way to live your life. Because you’re not invincible. Nobody is. And maybe now that we’ve learned that, we’ll be better.
It’s you. You deserve this. There is a reason this is happening to you.
But death is not freedom. For a moment, it can look like freedom. But then it’s death. Anything. Something. Nothing.
My pride shut me up, my hurt shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let her get away.
I saw his scars – the visible ones-and saw how breaking him had not made him any less beautiful. If anything, he stood stronger, because he’d survived.
I’m always standing on the edge of something bad.
What I really want, and what I never get – is to be appreciated.
I’m not in love with you.
What did it matter to me? Did I think that by making you rational about one thing, I could make you rational about everything? Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to save you from your fears.
Love me less, but love me for a long time.
I had a sense then of how if we truly understood how many of the unimportant things we do will end up outliving us, we’d never be able to go on.
I should talk to him I know I should talk to him. But I do not talk to him. I watch after him from afar and love him.
But you have to figure that if it’s too hard to hang on, then maybe you should let go.
As long as we can conjure, who needs anything else? As long as we can agree on the magical lie and be happy, what more is there to ask for? “I loved you from that moment on,” I say. “I loved you from that moment on,” you agree.
Let me hold on to this the way it was, before I knew anything else.
I am not dangerous. Only the stories are dangerous. Only the fictions we create, especially when they become expectations.