She will cry. She will cry over you like there is no tomorrow, until her throat is raw and her hair a mess. Her screams will echo through the walls and there will be nothing beautiful about it.

She will tear out the pages of her diary that she dedicated to you and swear your name will never again appear on the crisp pages that are so important to her. But two days later the words won’t come and she’ll find herself scrawling your name over and over until the ink blurs and merges with her tears.

She will curse you and curse herself and curse the skies for everything and nothing. There will be days when the sun shines but all she will see is rain and clouds, and days when she won’t see anything at all.

And fuck. She will love you even though her heart is breaking because she gave you a part of herself that you refuse to return.

But know this, she will also learn to forget you, so when she walks by in two months time, laughing and smiling without a care in the world, you will wonder how she slipped through your fingers, and she won’t care.

Not one single bit.

Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #29 (via blossomfully)
As we lay there, silently, both of us were imagining many futures, with or without the other, as the last golden days of Indian summer were slowly, and almost imperceptibly giving way to the late autumn chill that moved through my body like electricity. We had a seriously distorted view of the future. We actually believed that somehow, between the ages of 16 and 21, we would suddenly be transformed into whole new beings. With no great effort on our parts. No matter how awkward we were, or how mediocre and plain we might be as teenagers, no matter how much we slacked off, or wasted our time, one day we were guaranteed greatness. We believed this, and so we were more than just a little bit surprised that life had passed us by.

Adam Stanley  All My Sins Remembered


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