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“Hating them lets the bad stuff inside you win. Don’t do that. It’s such a terrible way to lose the war.”
“You’re right,” he says finally. “I should walk away. That would be the noble thing to do.” I pause at the barn door, hand on the rusted handle. Outside, crickets chirp a deafening symphony. “But I never claimed to be a noble man.”
“My point is that love is a siege, not a shootout. You don’t storm the gates—you starve the doubts. Outlast the anger.”
“Hell is a place in your mind,” she murmurs, with the quiet of someone reciting something they’ve dwelled over for too many long nights. “You can walk out of it any time you like.
