Tell me a truth, Senna.""I don't know how," I breath."Then tell me a lie.""I don't love you," I say. I sink beneath the weight of it all.Isaac stirs behind me, and then he is leaning over me, his elbo...
That's why writers write—to say things loudly with ink. To give feet to thoughts; to make quiet, still feelings loudly heard.
She's familiar. My only familiar thing in a world of inconsistency and confusion.
You shouldn't have to convince anyone to choose you. There is no real choice in love.
Humans seek connection above all else, and we are willing to destroy things to attain it.
