And I, infinitesimal being,

And I think the thing that terrifies me most is that one day, you’ll be the story I’ll tell my daughter, when she’s curled up in bed, wrapped in blankets and heartbreak, when she hasn’t eaten anything in days but the voicemails he left her, when she hasn’t been able to sleep because the goodbye that broke her shatters her bones all over again every time she closes her fucking eyes. And I’ll climb into bed with her and she’ll lay her head on my lap and I’ll try to brush him out of her hair and her tears will soak through my shirt and I’ll tell her about the boy I met when I was sixteen, who sat next to me in math class, who I fell in love with after two weeks, who saved me, who fucking destroyed me. And I’ll tell her about how it hurt. It hurt so badly it almost killed me. It hurt so badly my mother stopped going to work so she could stay home and make sure I didn’t take too many pills. And then I’ll tell her about how it got better. How it stopped hurting. How I stopped bleeding. My mother went back to work. I got out of bed. But I won’t tell her that sometimes I still have dreams about you and can hardly breathe the next day or about the pictures of you I have hidden in the attic.

You can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly.

“I used to think that love was a feeling,” he tells her, “but no, that’s not how it really is.” “What is it then?” She asks. “A choice,” he replies, “Love is a choice, a choice to put in your effort. Love is always a conscious commitment, not a sleepy confession during the night only to be taken for granted when the sun starts to shine the next day. It is a choice to help each other to grow, to be stronger.” “Love is definitely not a drunk confession at 3AM, only to forget about it when you’re sober. Love is a choice to be with your special one through thick and thin, it’s no child’s play at all. Love is a choice to stay and never give up when things are tough. Love is a choice on both sides to get things to work, to find out what’s wrong, and to fix it.” “So…” she says quietly, “…what’s your choice?” A pause. A look. A smile. “You.”

History is only boring for those who do nothing to be remembered.

Friends can break your heart too.

“Every word you write makes you a better writer, and there are a lot of bad words that you need to get through before you can get to the good ones.”

My life was going to flash before my eyes, but it decided to hide behind my eyes and quake with terror instead.