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What a load of rubbish. I don’t sulk; I brood. Like Batman.
“I didn’t know how to fix it or how to explain what needed fixing—what the it was, exactly—so I pretended it wasn’t happening. I pretended you weren’t happening, but you are. You’re happening. To me.”
How can he talk about deserving, when I’ve got this gut-deep suspicion that what we really deserve is each other? And I don’t mean because we’re a pair of brooding arseholes.
“Mum used to tell me fear will stunt you. Like growing a sunflower inside a cupboard. So I try to take my sunflower outside, even when it kills me.”
he’s made a rose of my heart: it’s still thorny, but around him it’s also fragrant and lovely and full.
Sometimes I’m so angry with him. How dare he make me feel like he adores me?
