There is hope, even when your brain tells you there isn‘t.
Lovelylottereader (Technically from the acknowledgments) 9h
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There is hope, even when your brain tells you there isn‘t.
[…] and no one ever says goodbye unless they want to see you again.
Love is not a tragedy or a failure, but a gift.
You remember your first love because they show you, prove to you, that you can live and be loved, that nothing in this world is deserved except for love, that love is both how you become a person, and why.
“You pick your endings, and your beginnings. You get to pick the frame, you know? Maybe you don‘t choose what‘s in the picture, but you decide on the frame”
“The problem with happy endings,” I said, “is that they‘re either not really happy, or not really endings, you know?”
Like, the world is billions of years old, and life is a product of nucleotide mutation and everything. But the world is also the stories we tell about it.
You‘re both the fire and the water that extinguishes it. You‘re the narrator, the protagonist, and the sidekick. You‘re the storyteller and the story told. You are somebody‘s something, but you are also your you.
Tonight, under the sky, she asked me, “Why do all the ones about me have quotes from The Tempest? Is it because we are shipwrecked?”
Yes. Yes, it is because we are shipwrecked.
Our hearts were broken in the same places. That‘s something like love, but maybe not quite the thing itself.