Dearest Josephine

Nobody talks about the other loss, the loss that happens within us. We lose people and things, but we also lose parts of ourselves. We grieve those missing parts too. We grieve them, and we grieve us. But I think losing those parts creates space. For newness. For understanding others’ hurts and welcoming them into our free spaces.

Perhaps we never stop loving someone. We just learn to move forward. To live without them because of them. Perhaps we let go to hold on.

I do believe literature holds the best of us . . . or perhaps it reflects the better versions of who we are.

A book is but a stack of paper until someone reads it. And when someone reads it, they build a house within its pages so whenever they return to that book, they feel right at home.

Poets use countless words to describe their pain, but I only need three: I miss you.

The missing comes in waves, some more intense than others. I miss the toothpaste globs he left in the sink, how he’d watch the morning news while I ate breakfast. I miss crying on his shoulder, talking his ears off, being the first person to hear about his good days and the first to embrace him on his bad ones. I miss the small things more than the big things because the small things proved he was mine.

She was the book he couldn’t put down.

The choice isn’t to move on—life moves whether I want it to or not. No, the choice is to look forward, not backward, to take a step because refusing to move won’t draw the past nearer, only postpone better days.

I’ll cling to the hope that one day, after such a strenuous wait, I shall hold you in my arms and whisper against your lips, “My dearest, you were worth every second.

It was through words I found you. Through words, I reach you. And through words, I beg to keep you close.

I have grieved so much, but loss does not dim with practice. If anything, it gains momentum.

I wish to be content and loved, yet I find it poetic, even romantic at times, to be sad and alone. Truly, despair adds intrigue to my otherwise dull existence.

Missing someone is the same as breathing, I suppose. It continues until the end.

So many people waste time waiting for good things to happen to them. But sometimes we need to make good things happen. And when we finally start doing that, we often see there were good things in our lives all along.

If a child falls and scrapes his knee, he does not say, “At least I didn’t break my leg.” He cries because pain causes discomfort regardless of its intensity. All pains are equal and valid, and deserving of attention.

I need a day with you, then another. I need an infinite amount of last days with you because none of them, no matter what we do, will be good enough to encapsulate how much I love you.

Humanity knows not to take big things for granted. We understand the importance of loved ones, health, acceptance, but what about the billion other elements that define who we are? Big we see. For big, we toss and turn at night, fearing big loss. And yet, the little things we overlook. Forgetting to savour life’s details, such as the taste of fresh scones or the scent of books opened for the first time, is our greatest deprivation. Such pleasures are not subject to change. However, we change. Our hearts break, and pastries lose their flavour. Love dies, and our senses dull. By losing a big thing, we lose all the littles by default.

You could spend your whole life searching for love with your eyes closed.

I meant humans often fail to acknowledge the beauty around them, but their lack of notice doesn't determine a thing’s value. Gorse does not require an audience to grow, and neither do people. We aren't who we are because of what others see or say.

Words give power to feelings, and not all feelings deserve power.

I shall not lose hope that we will meet again. Even the astronomers believe those destined to collide, whether they be stars or people, might cross paths and go their separate ways but eventually doth find themselves brought together once more. And so, I hope.

All he could do was provide what she asked for—a friendship, a book, some afternoons of laughter before adulthood caught up with them. He wanted the whole story, but he’d settle for a chapter. A little of her was worth the pain of losing her.

I admire your dedication to literature. I think if I could live in your thoughts . . . your mind would seem a cosy place.

Sorrow is a sharable weight but a solo process.

The night was bright. He was seen. And she was everything.

I don’t want you. I love you, and that love surpasses all want in such a way I could never have you and still feel at peace. I could throw rice at your wedding, hold your firstborn, watch you live without me . . . and I’d handle it all perfectly well because love—this tether binding me to you—would endure.

The night seemed varnished with a golden sheen. Carriages rounded the manor's drive, their horses pounding gravel as if to applaud the parade. One by one, gentry clothed in satin and velvet emerged from their boxes. They bid adieu to their drivers and flocked to the main house, glittering like jewels in the torchlight.

GOOD shouldn’t be used to describe a girl in any way. There are good books, good food, but not good girls.

After everything we have endured, I must cling to the belief that our stories will collide in the end. I need hope. And if I cannot hope in us, I shall lose hope in everything else.

We can forgive but we can’t forget. Whoever says otherwise hasn’t known true pain. Hear me out. Hearts are muscles, and muscles have memory. So, of course our hearts can’t forget. They remember what hurts them. They remember so they can grow stronger. I think that’s why we must remember. If we forgot the moment we forgave, we wouldn’t receive the strength that comes from hurting. And something good must come from all the bad. Something. Anything. Even the faintest good.