Shadow Me

It’s not the pain that’s unendurable. It’s the hopelessness. It’s the hopelessness that makes you reckless.

I’m lonely but I’m not alone. My body works, my brain works, I’m alive. It’s a good life. I have to make a conscious effort to remember that. To choose to be happy every day. If I didn’t, I think my own pain would’ve killed me a long time ago.

It’s crazy how much I wish I didn’t care. I wish, so much, all the time, that I didn’t give a shit about this sort of thing—that I could be like Warner, a frozen, unforgiving island; or even like Adam, who’s found his happiness in family, in his relationship with his brother—but I’m like neither. Instead, I’m a big, raw, bleeding heart, and I spend my days pretending not to notice that I want more. That I need more. Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even. And I’ve got no one to share it with.

She gets me. I give her a lot of crap for being emotional all the time, but I love how empathetic she is. I love how she feels things so deeply that sometimes even joy manages to wound her. It’s who she is. She’s all heart.

I’m grateful. I’m exhausted, overworked, and stressed out, but I’m grateful. I force myself to say it, out loud. I’m grateful. I take a few moments to feel it. Recognize it

I'm lonely but I'm not alone.

I'm so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look everyone seems to have someone. Everyone but me. It's crazy how much I wish I didn't care. I wish, so much, all the time, that I didn't give a shit about this sort of thing

Somehow, I’ve become a magnet for pain. Other people’s pain. My own pain. The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself. I ask the follow-up questions that land me here. I care too much. I make it my business when I shouldn’t, and I only ever seem to get shit for it.

I always hated it about myself, that I couldn’t be tougher. Hated that I cried so hard when I saw a dead bird for the first time. Or that I used to bring home all the stray animals I found until Castle finally told for a week. I hated that I cried. Hated that I couldn’t help it. Everyone thinks I’m not supposed to give a shit—that I shouldn’t—but I do. I always do.

Kishimoto, if I considered other people’s mediocre standards a sufficient metric by which to measure my own accomplishments, I’d never have amounted to anything.” He looks up, meets my eyes. “You should demand more of yourself. You’re entirely capable.

And not only in love, but beyond salvation.

Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even.

You don’t see yourself around her. Your feelings are obvious to everyone. From anywhere.

It's not the pain that's unendurable. It's the hopelessness. It's the hopelessness that makes you reckless.

Adam hasn't changed a bit. Still moody. No sense of humor. Generally irritated. Sometimes I can't remember why we're friends

My greatest wish for you,” he says, “is for you to see yourself the way that I do: as a brilliant, handsome, compassionate young man who would do anything for the people he loves.

I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. My lungs feel too small. My heart feels both fast and absurdly heavy.

Instead, I’m a big, raw, bleeding heart, and I spend my days pretending not to notice that I want more. That I need more.

I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now. I wouldn’t wish that for you.” That hits me harder

Are you out of your mind ? ” And when he says, without a hint of irony— “No more than usual” —it’s crystal clear to me that this dude is not okay. I sigh, hard, and turn away, hating myself for always noticing this kind of thing, and hating myself even more for my constant need to follow up.

In my less charitable moments I might call him a coward, but I get it. I'd opt out, too, if I could. I just don't feel like I can. There's still too much I'm willing to die for.

If I considered other people's mediocre standards a sufficient metric by which to measure my own accomplishments, I'd have never amounted to anything.

Like the pain has disfigured her.

I don’t understand this. I don’t understand why she’s treating me like this. And I open my mouth to say exactly that when she says— “Never mind, I don’t want to talk to any of you. Please go away. Or maybe you can all go to hell. I don’t actually care.” I flinch. Her words land like physical blows. She’s talking to me like I’m the enemy, and I can’t believe it. “Are you—wait, are you serious right now?

something about the cold, poisonous expression in her eyes breaks my heart like nothing else. I don’t know what happened to my friend.

skin. I thought I might die. I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. I wanted to. I wanted to melt into the Earth. Evaporate. Disappear.

but my less gracious thoughts keep circling me, pecking at my heart and mind like emotional vultures.

It’s nice to have space at the end of the night to be alone with my thoughts. Somewhere to hang the happy face I force myself to wear even when I’m having a shitty day. I’m grateful. I’m exhausted, overworked, and stressed out, but I’m grateful. I force myself to say it, out loud. I’m grateful. I take a few moments to feel it. Recognize it. I force myself to smile, to unclench the tightness in my face that would otherwise default too easily to anger. I whisper a quick thank-you to the unknown, to the air, to the lonely ghosts eavesdropping on my private conversations with no one. I have a roof over my head and clothes on my back and food waiting for me every morning.I have friends. A makeshift family. I’m lonely but I’m not alone.

Like a little bird with hollow bones.

but beyond salvation. When they break apart they both look a little crazy, but Warner looks especially unhinged.