Four years of sparring when we could have had this: his awful singing voice, his hip bumping mine to encourage me to sing along, the scarlet on his cheeks when I attacked him with icing. While I was so focused on destroying him, I missed so much.
And I wanted a hero who’d love her through her dark days, not despite them – because to me, that is the most romantic thing of all.
My anxiety-brain is never content to stress over one thing when it could be stressing over five.
That voice. It’s a time machine of familiar longing, tugging me back.
He “figured himself out” in college, the way people always say they’re going to do.
I cross and uncross my legs so many times it must look like I’m doing Pilates at best and a seductive chair dance at worst.
I just want to make sure-I don’t know. That you realized its me.
Then I take a deep breath... and I let it all go.
All these years, we were fighting when we could have been... not fighting.
He thought I was an ally. A confidant. A partner in crime. He couldn’t have known that Barret Bloom has always worked alone.
It’s impossible to get a hosting gig without experience, but you can’t get that experience unless you already have some experience under your belt. The joys of job hunting as a millennial.
And sometimes the world is terrible, and love stories... They make it feel less heavy.
I’m a barbed-wire fence. Every time he gets too close, I make myself sharper.
But you go into parenting hoping, maybe selfishly, that your kid will love the thing you love, and you can share that with them.
Short people are nothing if not skilled counter climbers.
I want- I want to be a writer. And not in the sense that I’m writing and that, by definition, makes me a writer – it’s what I want to do with my life. And it feels... really lonely sometimes. Not the actual writing – of course that’s mostly solitary. But feeling like I can’t tell anyone, it almost makes me think it doesn’t really exist” -Rowan.
Finally, I grab my oval wire-rimmed glasses, which I fell in love with because they make me look like I wasn’t from this century, and sometimes living in another century was the most appealing thing I could imagine.
I can barely commit to a skin-care regimen. I’m not sure how to commit to a major.
Breaking News: Texas is hot. Texas in June deserves its own circle of hell.
If I kissed you again, it wouldn’t be for the show, or for research, or for any reason other than that I wanted to. I’d want to remember every detail. The way you taste. The way you smell. The sounds you’d make.
There are weeks and weeks of memories poured into that kiss, long nights and early mornings and road trips that never led us back to where we started. Arguments and truces and theories.