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I mean Love Is Blind? That’s not even Love Island.
She wore socks with tennis shoes, as if she’d ever need to worry about a blister again. So strange that she had protected herself from a little discomfort like that, but that it wouldn’t matter anyway.
“It’s because I’m afraid that if I admit how sad I am, I’ll never be okay again.”
It’s so incomplete. It’s as if my favorite show got canceled without wrapping up all the storylines. But that’s what grief is, isn’t it? Expectation and resolution slashed, leaving unfinished conversations behind.
The reality being that I would simply never have back the happiness that had fallen through my fingers and shattered on the ground beneath my feet, the shards of it lodging into my skin, past the calluses, and making me bleed.
Out of all the lives I might have, I believe I can make this the one that feels right. I simply have to build it.
She always hated that it was so close to Christmas, but for me, I think of it as a way to ensure that every year, the world decorates for her.
I don’t try to protect the memory of tonight from tragedy by pretending it isn’t lovely, and I don’t cherish it so hard that I smother out its spark. I don’t question the magic or panic that what I love is slipping through my fingers, or that every good thing will one day be cast pale against the darkness of future catastrophe.
