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And to you, dear reader. You deserve every good thing, even when you’re having dark thoughts. You deserve to be happy, even when you aren’t well. And love—you deserve that too.
Any game I had (minuscule, tiny, almost nonexistent) has abandoned me in my time of need.
I need to keep my hands busy because I am feeling . . . a lot. Not a lot of different feelings, but a lot of one, something like excitement or elation. Only a few minutes ago I was exhausted. Now I’m practically vibrating with energy. If it were
You can’t assume everyone is your friend, my inner voice warns. But I can’t help it. If I like someone, it doesn’t matter if I’ve known them for five minutes or five years. They’re a friend until proven otherwise.
I’m so used to making these little mistakes, so used to frustrating the people in my life with them unintentionally, that even the tiny ones feel huge because they’re a reminder that I fall so short of what is expected.
I’ve got enough failure in my life already. Music is my one sure thing. If I lose my love for it, what do I have?
Someone I can tune in to with such ease that I want to abandon the small talk and jump right into the good stuff. Hopes, fears, all the things that make someone who they really are. It can be too much. I know that. I can be too much.
When I see homes like this—imperfect but clearly loved—it makes my chest ache. I want to have a place like this. Somewhere to belong. A place that’s mine, where I can be myself with people who understand me and like me just the way I am. People who don’t wish I was someone else.
But my problem isn’t that I don’t think. It’s that my brain only has two modes: think everything all at once and make sense of none of it, or think about one thing obsessively at the expense of whatever actually needs my attention. The point being, I am always thinking. Just never about the right things.
But today, being around her is like sitting in the sunshine on a cold day.
He looks at me as if he really believes that, as if it’s impossible I could do something that wasn’t great, and I decide that I’m at least a quarter in love with him already, if not halfway there.
“You know, most people try to keep me from going on tangents,” I say. “You practically shove me into them.” “I like to see where that brain of yours will go. It’s a surprise every time. And I like seeing you in my jumper.”
“Níl mé ag iarraidh go dtéann tú.” “And that?” He smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”
This is so cute
“Good night, ciaróg.” “Good night, Keurig.”
I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I’m exhausted. I’m so fucking tired of every good moment being darkened by doubt. I don’t know if I’ll ever have something good without doubting it, but when I was in recovery, I could keep it from ruining things.
“I feel too much, and sometimes this happens, and it’s embarrassing, and . . .” My throat tightens, and I can’t go on, or I’ll start ugly crying again.
“Teensy lie for sisterly solidarity. You don’t have to call me out on it. But really, you can’t be blamed. They pulled out all the stops. Just like in—” “Tarzan,” we both say. Clara laughs. “Phil Collins broke her,” she explains to Jack. “He didn’t have to go that hard.”
He really didn’t have to go as hard as he did but I’m thankful for it
“You feel a lot. Why is that a bad thing?” “I don’t know,” I say. “I just know that it is. I just know I’m too much.”
“How can you think you’re too much, when I can’t get enough of you?”
When she’s with someone else, I want her to be chasing the way I made her feel.
My hands make their way down his chest to his side. “Jack.” “Hmm?” “Is this a bagel with airplane wings?” “It’s a plane bagel.”
Maybe I’m not playing the wrong notes, but starting in the wrong place. All that dissonance because I’ve been trying to play someone else’s song.
So why do I feel like I want more for my life? I want everything. I want travel and music. But I want home and a family too. I want to always see something new, but at the same time, I want to find a place that is so familiar, it feels like a part of me.
I know what it feels like to be here, not as a tourist or passerby, but as someone who belongs.
But Ireland—Ireland is a chorus, something to return to again and again, a place to land. Or maybe it isn’t Ireland. Maybe it’s Jack.
I love that I can do this to him just by existing. I love that I can unravel this man who is always so busy trying to keep himself in control. I love that he can’t help but give himself over to the way I make him feel.
She turns over her shoulder and flashes me a smile, and I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m in Tokyo with her.
I’ll cry right now
press a kiss to her temple, and when I pull away, notice a cherry blossom in her hair. A flash of pink in a sea of red. I pluck it from her hair and balance it on a fingertip. “Make a wish, ciaróg.” She looks up at the cherry tree above us. “If we stay here long enough, I’m going to have a million wishes,” she says. She squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them again, blows the cherry blossom away. It flies from my finger and over the edge of the canal and into the river.
“What did you wish for?” I ask. “Don’t be nosy. If I tell you, it won’t come true.” “Nonsense. I’m Irish. I’m lucky. If you tell me, it’ll be more likely to come true.”
