It's like a razor blade edging its way through my organs, shredding me, all I can think is: It will kill me, it will kill me, it will kill me. And I don't care.

I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.

Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.

The Story of Solomon is the only way I know how to explain. And then, in smaller letters: Forgive me.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

Now, after so many years, I understand what the Coldness was and where it came from—this sense that everything is lost, and worthless, and meaningless.

i think of all the thousands of billions of steps and missteps and chances and coincidences that have brought me here. Brought you here, and it feels like the biggest miracle in the world.