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And I thought: now there is no turning back. No more regrets for what I haven’t done. Now only regrets for what I have done. I love him, I hate myself; I love myself, I hate him. This is the end of a long story.
“Unhappy people are always more interesting.”
Weakness is the only thing I’ve inherited from my father.
Does letting go mean losing everything you have, or does it mean gaining everything you never had?
