“When did my home become a house?”

“Leaving wasn’t the same as leaving behind.”

"Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn't possible have any direct correlation to one's happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It's really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint."

He didn’t know how it’d happened m, but she’d completely taken over his brain.

All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.

i wanted to tell him how i love his stupid smile. how i love his stupid face. how i love those stupid small gestures he does. how i love how he seems to manage to comfort me. how i sit in my room waiting to see him again, just for that hug. how much i love that he's my first for almost everything. how i love his weird jokes. how i love that super cute laugh of his. i wanted to tell him i am this shy because i still have the biggest crush on him. even though i know he's mine. i wanted to tell him how i grateful i am for him. and how bloody scared i am of losing him. so much that i cant even stand the mere thought of it. i wanted to tell him that i don't want this day, this night to end. i wanted to tell him that he's my safe place. my happy place.

I had a lot of things to say to him. So many that it nearly made my heart burst. But I never did. I was too scared. And I wonder if that’s how it’s going to remain. All those things, left unsaid, forever.

It breaks my heart to be loved like this, to be loved so purely that I’m capable of breaking a heart.

Hollow and empty are terrible ways to feel when you’re used to being full of joy. But it’s not so bad when you’re used to feeling full of pain.

The hope that I clung to in that moment didn’t feel good or freeing. It felt cruel. As if the world were giving me just enough rope to hang myself.

It seemed like it was too late now. That’s how easy it is to tell yourself it’s too late for something. I started doing it at the age of fourteen.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others.