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"I resent you. I resent that you made me need you. I resent that you were ready to die without a second thought about what that would do to me. I resent that even now, knowing all of this, I can't make myself stop wanting you."
Sometimes, late at night, I'd dig my nails into my palms until they bled, trying to feel something—anything—as purely as I used to feel everything.
The ocean stretched before me, vast and indifferent. Waves crashed against rocks that had stood since before the gods drew breath and would stand long after we were dust. There was something honest in that constant. In knowing that some things simply endured.
