Divine Rivals

It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, “You will miss so much by being so guarded.

I don't think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn't swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it's found in quiet, gentle places.

I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are.

In the meantime, I hope you will find your place, wherever you are. Even in the silence, I hope you will find the words you need to share.

I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.

I am coming to love him, in two different ways. Face to face, and word to word.

But time will slowly heal you, as it is doing for me. There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you--a shadow you carry in your soul--but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams. You are not alone.

I love the words I write until I soon realize how much I hate them, as if I am destined to always be at war within myself.

I never told you that I love you. And I regret that, most of all.

That’s it. You’re doing great, Winnow.” “Shut up, Kitt.” “Absolutely. Whatever you want.

Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness. And just in case you’re wondering … I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and even then, we might need to negotiate.

It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.

And I’m not afraid to be alone, but I’m tired of being the one left behind.

But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.

My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air.

He found me on my darkest day. He followed me to war, to the front lines. He came between me and Death, taking wounds that were supposed to be mine.

to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear.

I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.

I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain. That is strength, and I see it in you.

The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don't waste time worrying about things that won't even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light.

But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can’t expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own. And I think I was always writing for myself, to sort through my loss and worry and tangled ambitions. Even now, I think about how effortless it is to lose oneself in words, and yet also find who you are.

You mentioned the other day that you think I’m only here to ‘outshine’ you. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I broke my engagement, quit my job, and traveled six hundred kilometers into war-torn land to be with you, Iris.

Even in the silence, I hope you will find the words you need to share.

She has to survive this, Roman thought. He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.

How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?

She and Roman would survive this war. They would have the chance to grow old together, year by year. They would be friends until they both finally acknowledged the truth. And they would have everything that other couples had—the arguments and the hand-holding in the market and the gradual exploration of their bodies and the birthday celebrations and the journeys to new cities and the living as one and sharing a bed and the gradual sense of melting into each other. Their names would be entwined—Roman and Iris or Winnow and Kitt because could you truly have one without the other?—and they would write on their typewriters and ruthlessly edit each other’s pieces and read books by candlelight at night.

And yet I keep moving forward. On some days, I’m afraid, but most days, I simply want to achieve those things I dream of.

Let us make our names exactly what we want them to be.

But just in case you were wondering… I’ll gladly read whatever you write.

I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes.