More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.
“Oh, you didn’t know? There’s some great rat races down at the Eighteenth Street Station.” “Do you go often?” “Absolutely, there’s even a squeak-easy.” “Wow, you’re a real mice-stro of puns.”
I’d always written how grief was hollow. How it was a vast cavern of nothing. But I was wrong. Grief was the exact opposite. It was full and heavy and drowning because it wasn’t the absence of everything you lost—it was the culmination of it all, your love, your happiness, your bittersweets, wound tight like a knotted ball of yarn.
There is no happy ending, there’s just…happily living.
She didn’t want a loud life. She just wanted a good one.