☾ ﹋﹏

A little self-reminder on this: “Every moment is innocent, where there’ll never be a minute, nor a nano second like this again.”

It's the thing about wanting something you can't have. And that thing of never being able to say what you really feel.

Trust that I am here. Trust me by my actions, my affections. Those are my currency.

Et si tu penses avoir fait le bon choix, sache au moins qu'il y a, quelque part dans le monde, un homme qui t'aime et qui comprend à quel point tu es précieuse, intelligente et douce. Un homme qui t'a toujours aimé et qui, pour son plus grand malheur, t'aimera toujours.

Know this at least: that somewhere in this world is a man who loves you, who understands how precious and clever and kind you are. A man who has always loved you and, to his detriment, suspects he always will. And in the midst of that little tableau of insanity, that to have someone out there who understands you, who desires you, who sees you as a better version of yourself, is the most astonishing gift. Even if we are not together, to know that, for you, I am that man is a source of sustenance to me.

He kissed her, and knew he was trying to tell her the depth of how he felt. Even as he lost himself in her, felt her hair sweep across his face, his chest, her lips meet his skin, her fingers, he understood that there were people for whom one other was their missing part.

...to have someone out there who understands you, who desires you, who sees you as a better version of yourself, is the most astonishing gift. Even if we are not together, to know that, for you, I am that man is a source of sustenance to me.

She’d read somewhere that you only truly saw what someone looked like in the first few minutes of meeting them, that after then it was only an impression, colored by what you thought of them.

But just as nature abhors a vacuum -- so does the human heart.

Their eyes met, and in those few silent moments, he told her everything. He told her that she was the most astonishing thing he had ever encountered. He told her that she haunted his waking hours, and that every feeling, every experience he had in his life up to that point was flat and unimportant to the enormity of this. He told her he loved her.

I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written.

You must stand for something,

You have to be in the right environment for people to notice your unique talents and the great things you have to offer.