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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.
“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.”
He needs me. He needs to exert his power over me because his love has made him powerless. He needs me begging because his love has made him a beggar himself. The lust he feels for me comes from the love he feels for her.
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.
“This is what I think about,” he bites. “It doesn’t even matter if you’re around. This. Bursting every door down so I can get to your pussy. All I can think about is fucking you, Layla. All the time. Every time. You’re in my fucking blood, and I’ll tear apart anyone who dares to fucking touch you.”
We shouldn’t look for love stories where there are none to be found.”
“I didn’t hate you. I never hated you. I don’t...hate you.”
“See, that’s worse, Thomas,” I tell him, getting choked up. “Because if you don’t hate me then that means you…” I can’t say love. I don’t think I can ever say love. “Feel something opposite of hate, and if you in fact feel something opposite of hate, how could you not find me before this? How could you not pick up a phone to tell me you don’t hate me? I went days and weeks thinking you hated me, that I ruined every fucking thing in your life. I thought because of me, you’d never be happy. People kept telling me it wasn’t true, that it couldn’t have been me, but I never believed them. I still
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“A lover is the one who waits,” he paraphrases. “Then, I’ll wait. Forever.”
Bravery is picking up a pen and writing. Bravery is gouging out words from inside you and then imprinting them on a page to make them permanent. Bravery is knowing they might not ever be read by anyone, that the art you leave behind, the contributions you make to the world, might never be known by anyone. Bravery is knowing all of that but doing it anyway.
bravery is not the absence of fear, but the courage to do something despite it—taking that first step despite the danger of falling, creating a piece of art knowing that people might not appreciate it. Bravery is like falling in love. You don’t know if the person will reciprocate, but still you fall.
She is giving me her heart. I’ve thought about her heart a lot too. It’s big and fierce and soft and bright. It’s like a star or the moon or the entire fucking sky, and she’s giving it to me. She’s giving me the sky.
