Even when everything hurts, even when other cities are exploding and people we love are disappearing, there’s still space for sweet things.
I want to know if we are the same, in the moments when we’re stripped bare.
We have to give up so many things when the people we love die. So we hang on to other familiar things.
I can’t quite figure out the difference between loving someone and loving things about them.
Love is something you have or don’t have. Love is like a fever.
It sounds like love just sort of happens, whether you want it to or not, whether you’re married or not.
On our own, we’d look totally normal. Together, we’re something else. Together, we’re special.
We don’t smile, but we something. We something. It hurts, the way a deep connection to someone who isn’t yours sometimes does.
We are LornaCruzCharlotteDelilahIsla and we aren’t afraid of love, even if we’re supposed to be.
I guess I wonder what it would be like, to be living their live instead of mine.
Even the worst things about Devonairre Street are better than the rest of the city.
Like Christmas trees and Easter egg hunts and the block party on the last day of summer, we do things because traditions feel cozy and safe.
It’s incredible how small the English language gets when you’re trying to make it fix something.
Death always feels far away from life, until it isn’t.
Everyone else’s Minute of remembering is over, but ours stretches on and on. It doesn’tend.
This is another awful truth of losing people you love: everyone needs something different. And the needs almost never match up.
Sleep comes, no matter how deep the sadness cuts. It’s like a gift from the universe.
If you love someone and they vanish, you are left nodding like a zombie and throwing teacups at a wall.
The laws of physics say if there’s a party, Isla will eventually end up dancing on a table.
You never know what’s going to be in the garden in June when you’re looking at it in January.
Torture: knowing something makes no sense, but doing it anyways.
…The human mind is a complicated place…We hold on to things, images, words, ideas, histories that we don’t even know we’re holding on to.
Feelings are like blankets, covering you up so you can’t see clearly, or like mazes you can too easily get lost inside. I am terrified of getting lost.
That’s the thing about anxiety: It’s a real time suck.
I see my mother exactly as she is – sad and strong, tense and trying.
We’re all a little broken, on the sidewalk. On the street. In the city.