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And terribly lonely. I feel disconnected, I guess. Muted. Far away from anything that feels real.
“Not sure farms with a family of bloodthirsty cats are a great environment,” I grumble. Prancer brought me three mice last weekend. She lined them up in front of my door like a sacrificial offering. It was both disgusting and endearing.
I have no idea what he was doing that caused him to sweat so much, but I’d like to pen a thank-you note.
“You can’t make yourself be happy. But you can be open to it. You can trust yourself enough to feel it when you stumble on it.”
“Plus, everything gets quiet when I look at you.”
🥹❤️
“It’s okay to want different things,” she says. “People change. You’re allowed to change. Doing less doesn’t make you less.”
Maybe this is what happy is supposed to be. A person, a place. A single moment in time.
“We weren’t making out.” “Oh, honey. That’s a shame.” She tuts once. “You should always be making out with that man.”
He found his happy in me. Like I found mine in him. In us. In this.
