A Thousand Letters

Braveness isn't always loud. Sometimes it's silent. There's braveness in sacrifice and kindness. It's in doing a thing that needs to be done, even though it's hard, and even though it hurts.

There is no length to love; it's infinite. It lives in you always. Hold on to it.

Life is short, so short, so precious, every minute, every day. Don't let the people you love, the people who make you happy, the people who bring you joy — don't let them go. Hang on to them, even when it hurts. When it seems impossible. Hold on to the things that breathe life into you. Listen to your soul and honor what it tells you. Live. Fight for what you love. Because one day, you'll be where I am, and in that moment I want you to look back gladly, with no regrets.

There is no length to love; it's infinite. It lives in you always. Hold on to it." "But it hurts," she sobbed. "That's how you know it was real.

Home is not a place, Not a smell, Not a face, But a space In your heart. -M. White

I found myself in the dark, found her in the dark. I found light and truth in the darkness, hiding there where I couldn't see, right in front of me the whole time. And all I had to do was reach out and touch her.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, / The saddest are these: It might have been!

To live Is to feel So you know You are real.

I could heal him, but he would ruin me. I would make that sacrifice without question, simply because he needed me, and I loved him.

At the edge Of no more Is where we find Our truth.

Sometimes it’s a flutter, a flicker of wings in your chest. Others, it’s a relentless vise that stops the beat, if only for a second. It might be a hot burn, spreading like wildfire in your ribs, or an icy cold space, empty and void. But the heart always reacts. Even after seven years, just hearing his name inspired any of those reactions or a dozen more. And there was one every single time.

Well, you're a better person than I could ever hope to be." "Hey, I'm not the one married to one of them," I joked. "You, sir, have the patience of a saint." "Or the IQ of a carrot," he said with a smile.

He loves you, and that love hurts him because he regrets everything.

What is wrong with me? Why do I destroy the things I love?

I was a slave to my hope. But I couldn't hang on any longer. I watched as it slipped through my fingers, fading to a pinpoint of light.

It's not that easy." "Sometimes it's exactly that easy.

She glanced at me with a look that would have withered anyone else, but I went about my business, immune. They say that when you care, it gives them power. And she had no power over me.

How did you survive as a kid? It's like a sheep in the wolf's den." "I had books. Lots and lots of books.

When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. -Anne Elliot, Jane Austen’s PERSUASION

You never stopped loving her" ..... ..... "I don’t know how to stop

I’ve never understood why the heart always reacts. A shot of adrenaline is all it takes, triggered by a thought. A word. A memory. And every time the reaction is singular, a fingerprint of a moment. Sometimes it’s a flutter, a flicker of wings in your chest. Others, it’s a relentless vise that stops the beat, if only for a second. It might be a hot burn, spreading like wildfire in your ribs, or an icy cold space, empty and void. But the heart always reacts. Even after seven years, just hearing his name inspired any of those reactions or a dozen more. And

I’d become an expert at compartmentalizing my feelings. It was the only way I survived, by stacking up dusty boxes in my heart “for every hurt, packing them away in the dark.

There is no length to love, it's infinite. It lives in you always. Hold on to it.

The pain on his face mirroring the pain in my heart.

I said nothing as my heart broke again for the thousandth time, the porcelain pieces so small that I didn't know how I could keep putting it back together.

I closed the book and closed my heart along with it.

Home is not a place, Not a smell, Not a face, But a space In your heart.

...it was easier to keep the truth to myself, because what could anyone else do? I carried the weight of my choices around with me always, and no one knew. No one needed to suffer along with me.

Because I loved him, and that love destroyed me.

Are you suggesting that I'm a doormat?