A Thousand Letters (The Austens #2)

by Staci Hart

But the heart always reacts. Even after seven years, just hearing his name inspired any of those reactions or a dozen more. And there was one every single time.

He'd asked the impossible of me, but that it was impossible didn't stop my regretting everything.

I didn't know how to walk away from my life. And my biggest regret, my biggest shame, was that I wasn't brave enough to do it anyway.

I took the lead gladly, finding comfort at least in that. In being a doer. In being a fixer. But frustration twisted through me at the futility of it all. There was plenty to do. There was nothing to fix.

We rarely agreed, and I never said so because there was no discussion, only his opinion and everyone else's, and everyone else was wrong.

I told her now or never, and that mistake would haunt me until the day I died.

"You're what I give to the world, what I leave behind. I am proud." He said it slowly, every word with intention, with concentration, as if it were the most important thing he'd ever say. "Now, we have truth. Hold onto it."

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, / The saddest are these: It might have been!

I wanted to be near her, but I was afraid of her, afraid for my heart.

"Braveness isn't always loud. Sometimes it's silent. There's braveness in sacrifice and kindness. It's in doing a thing that needs to be done, even though it's hard, and even though it hurts."

"Stop apologizing for your presence," I said, persuasion heavy in my words, in my heart. "Stop assuming you're not wanted. You have every right to be here with us, for us, for him. So stop disappearing. Stop hiding from what you wish for. Stop sacrificing yourself for everyone else."

I was in love with a girl who had dreams, a girl who loved quietly and without expectation. But the girl before me had her dreams dashed, and she loved submissively, putting everyone else before herself until she found herself buried and gone.

I loved her still, and that love was real. And I only wanted her happiness, but I had no rights, no means to provide it.

He was right, and he was wrong. True and false. Yes and no. The words warred through him, through me.

I could think of nothing to say; there was nothing to defend. But I found no words of agreement either.

How could I explain that when he'd left, he'd taken me with him? How could I tell him he was all I wanted, and when he was lost to me, I lost all hope?

"You're right. It's not fair. It's cruel and ugly and unjust. But we'll endure it for your dad because this is the sum of what we have to offer him — our love."

"Define disaster. Like, trip-and-fall-with-a-side-of-accidental-groping disaster? Or like a why-did-you-break-my-heart-and-ruin-my-life kind of disaster?"

Today, the sun shone. Today, I saw him, saw the tenderness I'd longed for, dreamt of. Today, tonight, was magic.

"He punishes himself by pushing you away. It's easier to believe he can't have you, easier to think you're out of reach, because if he can have you, he'll have to deal with his regrets, his mistakes. He'll have to deal with his grief."

You are loved and cared for, with or without me. So please, don't break or bend. Don't crumble and fall. Stand up tall and face the sun and remember me."

"I need you," he whispered. "I love you," he breathed. "I'm sorry," he begged.

I could heal him, but he would ruin me.

And I realized then that I wasn't empty. I was broken; the sharp pieces of what was left of me were buried under shock that had collapsed, decimating me. But they resurfaced like the undead, cutting their way through the wreckage to open me up once again.

But the truth of my sacrifice was too much. He'd finally consumed all of me, fueling his fire with my soul's tinder.

Because I loved him, and that love destroyed me.

Funerals are a selfless act, a long day of grief to share with others whether you want to or not.

I couldn't be honest because the truth hurt too much to speak. I'd piled up that truth like sandbags and had been hiding behind them for protection.

Things always change, I said to myself, finding comfort in the platitude. Life is fluid — sometimes with cresting, white-capped waves, other times with an eerie stillness, a quiet surface. But it was never the same, day to day.

"Your hate has only strengthened my desire to be kind. Your anger has only made me more compassionate. I'm only sorry that I wasted it on you for all these years."

"There is no length to love; it's infinite. It lives in you always. Hold on to it." "But it hurts," she sobbed. "That's how you know it was real."

In life (Unlike death) There are few constants: The sun will rise; Your lungs will breathe; Your heart will love. - M. White

I'd been freed from chains I hadn't known I'd been wearing.