There are quiet ways to die where the body just doesn’t notice that the heart is gone.
Love sounded terrible if it made you so weak, you couldn't survive with out it.
Sometimes I miss the old me.
Yet sometimes being a friend meant letting people do things that hurt, like putting distance between you, just because it made them happy.
My body was a machine, plain and simple. I worked it to stay strong; I fed it to keep it running.
I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.