How can it be so unclear to her when it's like the fingers on my hand to me?

He can't possibly live up to the person you've built him to be

Travelling's not something you're good at. It's something you do. Like breathing. You can't work too much at it, or it feels like work. You have to surrender yourself to the chaos. To the accidents.

It takes certain kind of naiveté, or perhaps just stupidity, to know things will end and still hope otherwise.

But the you who you are tonight is the same you I was in love with yesterday, the same you I’ll be in love with tomorrow.

I know what I did to you was so wrong, but at the time it also felt so necessary to my survival. I don't know if those two things can both be true, but that's how it was.

I want to undo this. To make it right. But I have no idea how. I don't seem to know how to open up to people without getting the door slammed in my face. So I do nothing.