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falling in love isn’t bad or wrong or even hard. It’s actually really simple, even if there’s no reciprocation. It’s the falling out that’s hard, but no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise, reciprocation is important. It’s what keeps the love going. Without it, love just dies out, and then it’s up to you. Do you bury it, or do you carry the dead body around? It’s a hard decision to make, but you have to do it.”
I wonder what it takes to be loveable. Maybe you have to be less crazy or less selfish or less…ruining.
Words have the power to make things true. Just like some people don’t talk about their nightmares because it might make them come true, I don’t want to discuss what’s wrong in my life, in my marriage.
“Because unrequited love is like a dead, useless organ. It’s functionless. It’s sicker than a disease. You can cure a disease, but you can’t fix a defective soul. That’s the most frustrating thing in the world, to be that powerless.”
“Because it’s not home when she’s not in it,”
Because I’m a girl who’s not supposed to be the love of someone’s life, not with my selfishness. I was meant to live in the shadows and secrets. I can be Thomas’ secret, for a little while, at least—until I absorb all of his pain and set him free.
It’s too hard to look into his eyes and find my old self reflected back. There are ghosts moving in the depths of them—my ghosts, but I don’t look like them anymore.
“No, that’s…that’s not right. You’re not beautiful. I think you’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” He licks his lips, his eyes flitting back and forth. “No, not a…not a thing. You’re more than that, Layla. You’re…the poem I can never write. Yeah, you’re the piece of poetry I can never hope to finish, no matter how hard I try.”
My mind goes to the piece of paper tucked in my pocket—her poem from long ago. The poem she wrote for me, in another lifetime maybe. I carry it everywhere with me. I carry her everywhere with me, like a forgotten penny in my wallet. Most days I don’t even clap my eyes on it, but it’s there, safely buried.
“So that’s what it feels like.” “What?” “When someone says those three words back to you. I’ve always wondered.”
