Passion Project

by London Sperry

Now the only thing I’m passionate about is making it from one moment to the next.

It would be so easy to keep myself hidden from the world, sheltered in my cocoon knowing that I can’t fail if I don’t really try.

It’s like my grief has tethered me to myself, the walls of sadness like shrink-wrap surrounding all sides of me until I can barely breathe. Any movement I make, any step forward or back, is too painful. The smaller and smaller my world becomes, the more daunting it is to try to move out of the hurt. I feel close to Sam in my grief. It’s the only thing I have left of him.

“All stories are love stories.”

I want to be this Bennet, the clean one, because the more trash you accept in your life, the more you feel like you deserve it.

I know you think you’re some black hole of sadness and you hate your job, but having your shit together is not a prerequisite for love.” Having your shit together is not a prerequisite for love.

“Being up here makes me feel small, but being with you makes me feel significant.”

“I’d wait for you at that bar a million times if it meant I got to be here with you.”

It feels like I’m returning to him after a long journey, like I’ve met him in a past life, rather than mere months ago. It’s a kind of familiarity that lives below my skin, warming me from the inside out. I wonder if Henry feels it too.

You just sat with me in my pain and allowed room for me to put myself back together.”