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“We’re not broken,” he assures me despite the way his voice trembles. “We’re just cracked. All we need is a little glue. We’ll be good as new.”
How are people supposed to love unconditionally if they are judging others for whom they love?
“Our pain is what defines us. I’m not sure you’d be the deep, emotional, vulnerable soul you are without it. I like all the parts of you. Even those jagged not-so-pretty ones.”
He never wanted to fix me. He just wanted to hold all the broken parts of me so I wouldn’t lose myself.
