The first day of the rest of my life, and I’m not sure I want to be here. I know I should be thanking somebody for this, but I really don’t feel like it. Instead, I wish they hadn’t bothered.

Alone because love was one of those feelings that you could never have control of. And she needed to be in control. She had loved before, had been loved, had tasted what it was to dream, and had felt what it was to dance on air. She had also learned what it was to cruelly land back on the earth with a thud.

I can’t even think about what life “could have been” like in Boston, without crying. It’s like deja-vu, I don’t think me and Boston were ever meant to be.

Tonight I'm happy. I will worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. But I'm getting there.

They say a story loses something with each telling.

I'm never overwhelmed or under it either; just nicely whelmed. I'm OK. Nothing spectacular but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart.

Life has a way of getting what it wants when it really knows what it wants.