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“Those are words, not walls. They don’t defend. They don’t enforce. They don’t protect us from life. From pain. From how things change.
City lights twinkle through the window, and the only illumination comes from the lamps on the sitting room tables. In the dim light, her eyes fill with shadows and tears.
Your body is a participant, held hostage to depression just as much as your mind.”
“Depression,” she goes on, “is a liar. If it will tell you no one loves you, that you’re not good enough, that you’re a burden or, in the most extreme cases, better off dead, then it can certainly convince you that you’re better off without the man you love, and that, ultimately, he’s better off without you.”
She curls her fingers into a fist over my heart, and if she asked, I would carve it out of my chest and give it to her.