I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable nighttime conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no light in the room.

I was starting to think I was making up memories, just to have answers. Our brain does that sometimes. Or at least mine does.

You don't know, but I'm noticing.

Its a fine line between love and stalking.

I want to write my life. I want to be able to write my life. You are a second away from saying it. You have no idea how much I love you.

I should talk to him I know I should talk to him. But I do not talk to him. I watch after him from afar and love him.

For whatever reason, we like to focus on the 2 percent that's different, and most of the conflict in the world comes from that.