When I buy Rolaids at the drugstore, I love the lady who runs the place. I love the old man who’s stocking shelves. I even love the cashier with the insanely large hands who treats me like shit every other day. I don’t care if they don’t love me back.
This isn’t reciprocal.
It’s an outpouring.
Because if I give it all away, then no one can control it.
Because if I give it all away, I’ll be free.

Maybe she’d always been there. Maybe strangers enter your heart first and then you spent the rest of your life searching for them.

Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.

‘I think we’re made up of all these different pieces and every time someone goes, you’re left with less of yourself.’

I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

She recognized the strange happiness that came from loving something without knowing why you did, that strange happiness that was sometimes so big that it felt like sadness.

Sometimes I think that maybe we are just stories. Like we may as well just be words on a page, because we’re only what we’ve done and what we are going to do.

In the end, it’s not the changes that will break your heart; it’s that tug of familiarity.

I am not a darling. I am a girl ready to explode into nothing.