I wondered which was harder, in the end. The act of telling, or who you told it to. Or maybe if, when you finally got it out, the story was really all that mattered.

The chances we take, knowing no better than to fall or to stand back and hold ourselves in... protecting our hearts with the tightest of grips.

How do you even begin to return to someone, much less convince them to do the same for you? I had no idea. More than ever, though, right then I had to believe the answer would just come to me.

Their words, like the music, had the potential to be endless.

There was nothing, nothing to depend on. And why was I surprised?

The mistakes you make now count. Not for everything, and not forever. But they do matter, and they shape you.

But there was something I liked about the idea of those seeds buried so deep having at least a chance to emerge