This time when we kiss, I feel it in the pit of my stomach, I feel it in my heart. And I realize love isn't about sex. It's about connection.

Was the fun in the fall?

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

When the door to love opens, The window to control closes.

And how can it be he's so in love with me? To grow up without love, and still have so much inside?

Grandma once told me it's easy to overthink love, to dissect it and question it until it is no more.

Forgiveness isn’t my best thing. Easier staying pissed. But I’m tired of being pissed all the time. Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that can never be fixed because it is an indelible part of the past.