Recognizing someone as a part of you before they’ve even become that person in your life, and knowing, without a doubt, that neither of you will ever be who are you in this exact moment ever again and believing, against all odds, you will continue to belong to one another despite that.

She would fold herself around him to protect him. She would drink out all the darkness from him and pour out all her light on him. She would rebuild the whole world for him.

The song is sad, heartbreaking even, and I’m overcome with frustration that I don’t have a better word to describe it. It occurs to me then that Grandmother would. She’d have a whole story that would sound exactly like this song.

His mouth slides down my neck, the side of his face settling over my heartbeat. “I hear you,” he whispers, kissing my collarbone. “I can hear all of you, rushing around in there. A million Jacks and Juniors and Junes, a city of them.

For a moment we’re both silent, staring. I wonder if either of us really sees the other clearly anymore or if we stuck looking at the frozen images of who we used to be.

No matter how hard it feels, you don’t need to be afraid to move on. There’s always more to see and feel.

No matter how hard it feels, you don’t need to be afraid to move on, and you don’t need to be afraid to stay either. There’s always more to see and feel.

Growing up is going to hurt. Only you can decide if the pain is worth the love.

I sometimes think I wouldn’t feel so lost if she didn’t try so hard to make me feel okay about looking for myself.

Judging a story by the ending alone, or life by its death alone, is as pointless as judging a long hike through the mountains by the fact that when you get back to where you parked your car, there’s a pit toilet full of you know what and beer cans.