Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured. – EMILY DICKINSON.
He wedged his bag next to hers and then reached for her hips, guiding her back to sit on his lap.
If we must drown, let us do so entwined.
Give your fear a name,” Jack said, remembering that Adaira had once said this very thing to Torin. “Once it is named, it is understood, and it loses its power over you.
His laughter was beautiful in the dark.
I’m Iris. Like an eyeball.
I thought you were going to stand me up,” Jack confessed. “You think I would ask to marry you and then fail to appear?” Adaira asked, amused. He met her gaze, his eyes incandescent with firelight. “It felt like I waited an eternity for you.
I grew something living in a season of death.
I broke my engagement, quit my job, and traveled six hundred kilometers into war-torn land to be with you, Iris.
She’ll return soon. Just like she always does. When the clubs close at midnight.
Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you – a shadow you carry in your soul – but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound.
I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window.
She stared into its vastness, listening to the sounds of the city beyond her window, the creaks of the walls. It was strange to her – how close she could be to people and yet how far away and lonely she felt. How the night made things feel more poignant and desperate.
Time suddenly feels sharper than a knife grazing your skin, capable of cutting you at any moment.
What was he seeking? Why didn’t he just lie down and die?
I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air.
Do you think we could live in a world made only of those things? Death and pain and horror? Loss and agony? It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless.
I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places.
The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light.
Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.
Una persona. Una pieza de armadura.