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he isn’t someone I share my worries with—I suppose because I’m too busy shouldering his.
I let myself picture an entire life like this, one in which all the beautiful and painful things in the world are shared with someone else, someone who feels them and sees them like I do. My eyes squeeze tight. I wish I could have that.
Her time to use me as her whipping boy is running out quickly.
I’m not sure how you stop craving joy, and fullness, once you realize they exist.
