Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

here’s the thing, it’s a hard day, it was always going to be a hard day. But maybe it will be a good one, too.

(And it breaks Alice’s heart that Dad’s happiness and her sister’s hurt go hand in hand, or worse, that they are angled at each other, like pistols, or blades, and all she can do is put herself between them.)

Some people keep their heart tucked so deep, they hardly know it’s there. But you have always worn it like a second skin. It will make your life harder. But it will also make it beautiful.

And here is the awful thing about belief. It is a current, like compulsion. Hard to forge when it goes against your will, but easy enough when it carries you the way you want to go.

It is easy, isn’t it, in retrospect? To spot the cracks. To see them spread. But in the moment, there is only the urge to mend each one. To smooth the lines. And keep the surface whole.

Why does Charlotte stay? That is like asking—why stay inside a house on fire? Easy to say when you are standing on the street, a safe distance from the flames. Harder when you are still inside, convinced you can douse the blaze before it spreads, or rushing room to room, trying to save what you love before it burns.

When you are happy, a decade rushes by. When you are sad, a minute crawls.