More on this book
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Read between
January 31 - February 2, 2025
She hadn’t been made for anything. She was making herself.
Because hope was the thing that made a person keep living through the worst humanity had to offer, and he was done surviving.
He looked at her like he was a drowning man and she something to cling to. Foolish, foolish man. Didn’t he know that she was drowning too? That life was drowning, and that if two people clung to each other too tightly in rough seas, they only drowned faster?
“you have not yet realized that I’m not the orchid. I am the wreckage left behind in the aftermath.” “Don’t sell yourself short—I see no reason you can’t be both.”
“Who are you, Clare Brighton?” She thought of who she’d been. Of who she wanted to be. Of the lives and memories constantly pressing at her mind. “Everything and everyone. Who are you, Numair Tolvannen?” That dark melancholy moved across his eyes again. “Nothing and no one.”
sorrow was a teacher. It taught you what you valued. What you could make other people feel when you took what they valued from them. It was not pleasant, but without it, it would be too easy to value nothing.
the pain of a loss could be removed without cost, then loss itself became unimportant.
And there was power in sorrow. In surviving it.
